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ERISEST  JPEIXOTTO 


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^''eOld   Corner  Book'? 

Store,  Inc. 
^"'°";       -       Mas,. 


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BY  ERNEST  PEIXOTTO 

Each  volume  illustrated  by  the  author 

THBOUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUOAt. 

THE  AMERICAN  FRONT 

A  REVOLUTIONART  FILGRIMAOli! 

ODB  HISPANIC  SOUTHWEST 

BT  ITAIXAN  8?A8 

ROMANTIC  CALIFOENIA 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


THROUGH   SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 


A  Corner  of  the  Feria,  Avila 


THROUGH  SPAIN 
AND  PORTUGAL 


BY 


ERNEST  PEIXOTTO 


ILLUSTRATIONS  BY  THE  AUTHOR 


mm 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNT:R'S  SONS 

MCMXXII 


COPTBIGHT,    1922,    BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


Published  October,  1922 


DP 


TO 
ARCHER  M.  HUNTINGTON 

FOtmDER  AND  PRESIDENT 
OF  THE  HISPANIC  SOCIETY  OF  AilERICA 


CONTENTS 

PAOB 

LISBON 1 

CINTILV SI 

PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS— 

I.  Alcobaca 45 

II.  Bataliia  and  Leiria 55 

III.  Thomar 69 

TWO  EDENS  OF  ESTRA]\L\DIIRA— 

I.    COLMBRA            79 

II.  BussAco 89 

NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND  ITS  ROALVRIAS     ...  97 

AN  ADVENTUHE  IN  SALA:SLAN'CA U9 

TWO  HILI^TOWNS  OF  OLD  CASTILE— 

I.  AviLA 159 

II.  Segovl\. 17^2 

SOME  SPANISH  G.VRDENS— 

I.  The  Gardens  of  Southern  Spain 191 

II.  Aranjuez  and  La  Granja       210 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 


IN  CATALONIA— 

I.  The  Catalans  and  their  Churches 

II.    MONTSERRAT 


PAGE 

2:23 
233 


MALLORCA 243 


[  viii  1 


--:^- 


I 


^ 


^^A 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


A  Corner  of  the  Feria,  Avila Frontispiece 

PAGE 

The  Water-Front,  Lisbon 7 

The  Older  Quarters  of  the  City 9 

The  Torre  de  Belem 15 

West  Door  of  the  Jeronymos,  Belem 19 

Church  of  the  Jeronymos,  Belem facing  20 

Cloisters  of  the  Jeronymos,  Belem 23 

Old  Royal  Palace,  Cintra facing  34 

Entrance  to  the  Pena,  Cinlra facing  38 

"Sitting  Sideways  on  Their  Patient  Donkeys" 47 

The  Tomb  of  Dom  Pedro,  Alcobaga facing  52 

Batalha 57 

[ix] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


An  Angle  of  the  Cloisters,  Batalha facing  60 

The  Castle,  Leiria 63 

The  Market,  Leiria 65 

Church  of  the  Templars,  Thomar 71 

Church  of  the  Kaights  of  the  Order  of  Christ,  Thomar  ...  75 

Coimbra  from  the  Banks  of  the  Mondego 81 

Arco  de  Almedina,  Coimbra 83 

Chou-  Stalls  m  the  Church  of  Santa  Cruz,  Coknbra  .      .  jacing  84 

Quinta  de  Santa  Cruz,  Coimbra 87 

The  Monastery  and  Palace,  Bussaco jacing  92 

The  Gorge  of  the  Douro  at  Oporto Jacing  100 

An  Ox-Team,  Oporto 102 

A  Wine-Boat  on  the  Douro 104 

The  Cathedral,  Oporto 107 

The  Town  Hall,  Guimaraes Ill 

"  Whose  Jalousies  Recall  the  Days  of  Moorish  Occupation  "      .  115 

Church  of  Sao  Joao,  Braga 119 

The  Monumental  Scala,  Bom  Jesus facing  122 

Comer  of  a  Romaria facing  124 

Facade  of  the  University  of  Salamanca 139 

Patio  of  the  Casa  de  las  Conchas 145 

Palace  of  the  Monterreys 149 

[x] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGB 


Salamanca  from  the  Puente  Romano 151 

"  The  Matador,  too,  Was  a  Competent  Fellow  " 153 

"Massive  Walls  and  Towers  That  Girdle  It  Without  a 

Breach" facing  1G2 

Interior  of  the  Cathedral,  Avila facing  ICG 

The  Roman  Aqueduct,  Segovia facing  174 

The  Peasants  Bartered  and  Gossiped facing  176 

The  Alcazar  Bristling  with  Barbacan  and  Battlement     .      .      .  183 

"The  City  PUes  Up  Grandly  from  This  Side,  too"    ....  185 

Gardens  of  the  Alcdzar,  Seville 193 

Pavilion  of  Charles  V,  Alcazar  Gardens,  Seville 195 

The  Garden  of  Linderaja,  Alhambra 201 

Upper  Garden  of  the  Generalife,  Granada 205 

The  Fountain  of  Apollo,  Aranjuez 213 

The  Carrera  de  Caballos,  La  Granja 219 

"The  Lace-like  Towers  of  Burgos" 225 

Cathedral  of  Tarragona 227 

Gerona  from  the  Banks  of  the  Ona 229 

"San  Feliu's  Truncated  Spire" 230 

Montserrat 235 

The  Monastery  Buildings,  Montserrat 237 

"Seen  Above  the  Lateen  Sails  of  the  Fishing  Smacks"  .  247 

[xi] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


The  Almudaina  and  the  Calle  de  la  Seo,  Palma 253 

Carthusian  Monastery  of  Valldemosa ^55 

Miramar ^^'^ 

Patio  of  the  Casa  Sollerich,  Pahna         facing  274 

A  House  Interior,  PoUensa 277 

Ascent  to  the  Calvary,  Pollensa 279 


[xii] 


I 

LISBON 


LISBON 

WE  had  left  New  York  for  Lisbon  expect- 
ing to  make  good  connections  via  Gi- 
braltar and  Tangiers.  On  the  seventh 
morning,  however,  upon  awakening  very  early,  I 
made  out  through  the  porthole  the  high  cliffs  of 
Madeira — great,  purple,  wall-like  headlands  bearing 
upon  their  summits  innumerable  terraces  of  vine- 
yards mounting  one  upon  another  high  up  to  the 
big  mountains  inland.  Thin  columns  of  blue  smoke 
rose  straight  in  the  still  morning  air,  hundreds  of 
them,  from  tiny  cottages  scarcely  visible  to  the  eye 
or  from  brush-fires  in  the  fields. 

The  land  looked  peaceful  and  calm  as  our  great 
steamer  cut  her  path  silently  to  the  harbor  of  Fun- 
chal.  As  we  entered  this,  I  descried  two  big  liners 
lying  at  anchor. 

I  saw  the  agent  as  soon  as  he  came  aboard,  found 
that  one  of  them  was  to  sail  before  noon,  bound 
direct  to  Lisbon;  went  ashore,  engaged  passage  (the 

[3] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

last  cabin  on  the  ship),  and  returned  in  a  boat  with 
two  brawny  oarsmen,  together  with  a  man  from  the 
company  and  a  custom-house  official  to  transfer  our 
baggage.  So  that  before  eleven  o'clock  we  were 
pacing  the  broad  decks  of  this  new  ocean  giant, 
watching  the  wealthy  Brazilians  and  Argentinos,  to 
Europe  bound,  to  spend  their  summer  holidays. 

It  was  a  gay  ship's  company  indeed  after  thirteen 
drowsy  days  together  on  tropic  seas.  By  chance  we 
met  some  friends  from  Chile  and  had  a  merry  time 
that  evening  at  the  captain's  dinner  where  every  one 
made  speeches  and  danced  afterward  at  a  costume 
ball,  given  in  the  huge  white-and-gold  saloon. 

Next  afternoon  (a  record  trip,  I  believe)  we  raised 
land  at  about  four  o'clock,  and  I  heard  some  Brazil- 
ians near  me  murmur,  "tierra  Portuguese" — their 
motherland. 

First  faint  and  blue  on  the  brilliant  water,  this 
land  gradually  took  shape  and  became  a  definite  hill, 
nay,  a  mountain,  a  jagged,  purple  silhouette  against 
the  sky — a  shape  that  has  guided  many  a  weary 
mariner  safe  to  port  and  many  an  intrepid  discoverer 
home  from  visions  of  new  lands  beyond  the  sea. 
And    mingled    with    thoughts    of    such    adventures 

[4] 


LISBON 

crowded   memories  of  Southey  and  of  Byron  and 
Childe  Harold  when 

"Cintra's  mountain  guides  them  on  their  way." 

Ships  and  fishing-smacks  with  strange  jibs  and 
queer  rigs  came  and  went  upon  the  shimmering  sea 
as  we  skirted  the  bright  sandy  shores  of  the  Alemtejo. 
Two  old  forts  reared  their  casemates  on  rocky  prom- 
ontories; then,  in  a  green  dimple  by  the  sea,  the 
gay  houses  of  Cascaes  and  Mont'  Estoril  clustered 
among  gardens,  while  upon  a  long  sand  spit  to  the 
right,  Bagio's  lighthouse  guided  us  up  the  channel. 

The  sun  was  nearing  the  horizon  as  the  sea  nar- 
rowed to  a  strait,  and  to  the  left  the  old  Tower 
of  Belem  again  recalled  Vasco  da  Gama  and  his 
glorious  return.  Now,  as  we  threaded  the  nar- 
rows, the  pale  houses  of  Lisbon,  clustered  thick  as 
eggs  in  a  basket,  pink,  blue,  ochre,  and  white,  piled 
up  the  hills  to  the  Ajuda  Palace  and  we  entered  the 
broad  bay  formed  by  the  Tagus  just  as  it  empties 
into  the  sea — one  of  the  largest  harbors  in  Europe, 
that,  however,  with  its  sparse  shipping,  now  seems 
like  a  frame  too  large  for  its  picture. 

Amid  great  bustle  and  confusion  we  were  landed 

[5] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

in  a  tender  at  the  Alfandega,  took  a  cab  with  a  pair 
of  rattling  ponies,  sped  through  the  hilly  streets  of 
the  city,  and  then  the  broad  Avenida  opened  before 
us,  and  we  drew  up  at  our  hotel. 

The  first  impression  from  our  window  next  morn- 
ing was  a  most  pleasant  one.  And  indeed  Lisbon 
leaves  the  definite  impression  of  a  gay,  bright  capi- 
tal, if  not  of  a  truly  beautiful  city.  Beautiful  it 
certainly  is  by  nature,  seated  on  its  lofty  hills  over- 
looking the  Tagus  and  interspersed  everywhere  with 
semitropic  gardens  and  largos,  but  its  newer  houses 
are  too  rectangular,  too  lacking  in  imagination  to 
make  anything  but  rather  monotonous  streets. 
Even  the  Praga  do  Commercio,  though  laid  out  upon 
a  truly  magnificent  scale,  fails  to  arouse  enthusiasm. 

This  is  the  city*s  aspect  to  the  casual  visitor  who 
devotes  but  a  day  or  two  to  its  sights.  But  to  one 
who  is  willing  to  give  it  a  week  or  more,  it  holds 
many  attractions. 

The  seeker  for  the  picturesque  will  delight  in 
the  water-front  in  the  morning  hours  and  in  the 
fisher-folk — the  men  in  black  bag-caps  and  knee- 
breeches;  the  women  barefoot,  setting  out  with 
basket  on  head  to  trot  the  city  streets.     They  are 

[6] 


Vjh'tf  •^'^^■"' 


f 


1^ 


o 


fSm  I 


o 

I 

I 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

the  most  picturesque  of  the  Lisbon  types  and 
most  of  them  are  really  beautiful,  the  fine  ovals  of 
their  faces,  their  smooth  complexions,  and  lustrous, 
almond-shaped  eyes  recalling  clearly  their  Mauresque 
origin. 

Then,  too,  he  will  explore  the  older  quarters  of  the 
city,  spared  by  the  terrific  earthquake  of  1755,  that 
lie  to  the  westward  under  the  shadow  of  the  old 
Moorish  castle  walls:  a  labyrinth  of  steep,  narrow 
thoroughfares  that  recall  Algiers  and  the  slopes  that 
lead  to  the  Kasbah.  The  houses  are  faced  with  blue 
and  brown  tiles  and  take  their  air  from  the  patio 
rather  than  from  the  street.  No  wagon  ever  passes. 
The  poor  carry  their  burdens  upon  their  heads;  the 
well-to-do  hustle  a  patient  donkey  before  them  ladea 
with  panniers. 

Peddlers'  shrill  cries  fill  the  air.  The  fine  strong 
fishwife,  the  water-carrier  with  his  earthen  jars,  the 
vegetable-vendor  swinging  his  baskets  across  his 
shoulder  on  a  long  stick,  call  their  wares  from  house 
to  house,  while  shrillest  of  all  and  most  noticeable, 
the  hawker  of  lottery  tickets  shouts  numbers  one 
after  another  in  hopes  of  tempting  some  housewife 
with  the  sound  of  a  lucky  combination. 

[8] 


f,.C.T.»..il. 


-  '='  V 


The  Older  Quarters  of  the  City 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

At  the  portal  of  this  old  town  stands  the  Se,  the 
rugged  old  cathedral  that  dates  from  the  time  of 
Affonso  Henriques,  first  king  of  Portugal,  battle- 
mented  and  castlelike  as  befits  a  church  built  in  the 
time  of  the  Crusades,  when  Lisbon  had  just  been 
wrested  from  the  Moors.  At  present  it  is  under- 
going restoration,  especially  in  the  ambulatory  and 
cloister,  where  the  fine  sturdy  architecture  of  its 
original  form  is  emerging  from  the  rubble  arches 
and  coats  of  whitewash  that  were  put  upon  it  during 
the  Roman  revival. 

Upon  the  other  edge  of  the  old  town  looms  the 
huge  gray  bulk  of  Sao  Vicente,  a  Renaissance  church 
of  noble  proportions.  St.  Vincent  is  the  patron  saint 
of  the  city  and  also  of  the  House  of  Braganza,  who 
reigned  uninterruptedly  in  Portugal  for  almost  three 
centuries  until  King  Manoel  was  deposed  a  few  years 
ago  by  the  present  new  republic. 

The  edifice  itself  contains  little  of  interest,  but  the 
kings  of  this  house  are  buried  in  a  vault  in  its  cloisters. 
Expecting  to  see  some  pompous  marble  sarcophagi, 
we  called  the  guardian,  who  unlocked  the  door. 
WTiat  was  our  surprise,  however,  to  enter  a  vaulted 
stone  chamber  with  a  sort  of  deep  shelf  running  all 

[10] 


LISBON 

about  it.  Disposed  upon  this  shelf  and  piled  upon 
the  floor,  rested  a  great  number  of  caskets,  some 
draped  with  velvet  palls,  others  covered  only  with 
brocades  or  stamped  leathers  such  as  were  used  upon 
the  marriage  chests  of  Spain. 

Not  a  statue  nor  an  urn  anywhere.  In  the 
centre  a  huge  black  catafalque  reared  itself,  hung 
with  memorial  wreaths  and  tokens,  that  shaded 
the  coflSn  of  the  unfortunate  Dom  Carlos  assassi- 
nated in  a  late  revolution.  At  its  foot  lay  another 
casket. 

Before  I  realized  what  he  was  doing  our  com- 
plaisant guide  had  drawn  back  the  pall  of  this  one 
and  exposed  to  view  the  body  of  the  Crown  Prince, 
dressed  in  full  unifonn.  Not  content  with  this,  he 
urged  me  to  mount  some  steps  and  showed  me,  one 
after  another,  other  royal  personages  with  star  and 
plaque  upon  their  breasts  and  ermine-trimmed  cloaks 
enveloping  their  poor  shrunken  bodies.  It  was  the 
first  time  I  had  looked  dead  royalty  in  the  face,  and, 
though  I  have  seen  gruesome  catacombs,  especially 
in  Palermo,  I  confess  that  this  one  seemed  the  worst 
of  all — a  strange  sort  of  desecration  or  sacrilege,  yet 
bringing  home  with  terrifying  force  the  eternal  truth 

[11] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

that  a  king  in  death  is  no  better  than  his  humblest 
vassal. 

Lisbon's  chief  sight  lies  beyond  the  town  proper 
in  one  of  its  immediate  suburbs  called  Belem,  a  cor- 
ruption of  Bethlehem.  To  reach  it  you  must  take 
one  of  the  busy  electric  cars  that  serve  the  traveller 
so  well  in  all  his  joggings  about  the  town  (and  that 
have  a  strangely  familiar  look,  by  the  way,  to  Ameri- 
cans, for  all  of  them  were  built  in  Philadelphia)  and 
ride  far  out  along  the  water-front. 

On  the  way  you  may  alight  at  the  Quinta  de 
Baixo  and  visit  the  Royal  Museum  of  Coaches,  a 
remarkable  group  of  some  twenty  or  more  state 
carriages — gorgeous  vehicles,  dating  mostly  from  the 
eighteenth  century,  carved,  gilded,  and  painted  with 
allegorical  figures  and  lined  with  magnificent  bro- 
cades and  velvets,  even  their  floors  being  finished  in 
ivory  or  Boule.  Next  to  the  collection  at  Madrid, 
I  think  that  it  is  the  handsomest  that  I  have  seen 
and,  in  connection  with  the  cabriolets  and  sledges  and 
cases  of  harness  and  rich  livery  up-stairs,  gives  a 
compelling  picture  of  the  apparat  and  splendor  of 
the  showy  court  of  the  Braganzas. 

A  few  minutes'  walk  beyond  this  palace  brings 

[12] 


LISBON 

you  to  the  great  church  of  Jeronymos  and  but  a 
little  farther  on  stands  the  old  Torre  de  Belem — 
St.  Vincent's  Tower,  that  has  for  hundreds  of  years 
guarded  the  mouth  of  the  Tagus. 

At  this  spot,  in  the  fifteenth  century,  there  lived 
some  fishermen  and  sailors  in  a  little  community 
called  Ilestello.  For  their  comfort,  solace,  and  shel- 
ter. Prince  Henry  the  Navigator,  friend  and  patron 
of  seafarers  and  promoter  of  all  the  great  voyages  of 
the  Portuguese  discoverers,  that  ended  by  giving 
man  full  possession  of  the  globe,  had  built  a  refuge 
church,  about  which  grew  up  a  hermitage  for  aged 
mariners  with  gardens  and  orchards,  birds  and 
flowers. 

The  little  ermida  had  witnessed  the  departure  of 
many  a  caravel  and  of  many  a  navigator  like  Zarco 
and  Perestrello,  who  first  landed  in  Madeira  and  the 
Canaries,  and  Cabral,  who  discovered  the  Azores  and 
reached  far  Brazil,  and  of  those  other  hardy  mariners 
— Gil  Eannes,  Baldaya,  and  Nunao  Tristo — who, 
step  by  step,  had  crept  down  the  west  coast  of  Africa 
through  tropical  seas  "always  kept  boiling  by  the 
sun,"  according  to  popular  belief,  as  far  as  Cape 
Bojador  and  farther,  finally  reaching  the  redoubtable 

[13] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Cabo  Tormentoso  that  was  to  open  the  route  to  India 
and  become  in  consequence  the  Cape  of  Good  Hope. 

It  had  always  been  Prince  Henry's  dream  to 
aid  one  of  his  countrymen  to  double  this  mythical 
cape  and  reach  the  Indies  by  the  direct  sea  route, 
thus  bringing  the  wealth  of  the  Rajahs  in  Portuguese 
boats  direct  to  Lisbon  harbor.  After  many  a  vain 
attempt  he  fitted  out  the  expedition  intrusted  to 
Vasco  da  Gama,  who  spent  his  last  night  ashore 
praying  in  this  little  church  of  Restello.  Two  years 
later  he  returned  to  the  very  same  spot,  having 
landed  meanwhile  in  Malabar  and  completely  ful- 
filled his  mission. 

King  Manoel  "the  Fortunate"  welcomed  him  in 
person  and,  to  commemorate  his  happy  return, 
according  to  a  vow,  began  to  build  the  great  convent 
of  the  Jeronymos  and  a  few  years  later  erected  this 
watch-tower  overlooking  the  mouth  of  the  Tagus. 
The  wealth  that  now  poured  into  Lisbon,  making 
it  the  richest  city  in  Europe  and  the  successor  of 
Venice  as  maritime  queen  of  the  Western  world, 
enabled  him  to  carry  out  this  scheme  upon  a  scale 
of  unprecedented  magnificence,  as  both  monuments 
still  testify. 

[14] 


LISBON 

St.  Vincent's  Tower  is  a  splendid  specimen  of  the 
military  architecture  of  its  day — rather  more  florid 
than  such  a  work  would  be  in  the  North,  but  sturdy 


The  Torre  de  Belem 

and  strong  despite  its  fretted  surfaces.  Until  fifty 
years  ago  it  stood  quite  surrounded  by  water,  but 
sand-bars  have  gradually  encompassed  it  on  one  side 
and  it  now  forms  part  of  a  shore  battery. 

[15] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

With  a  little  persuasion  I  induced  a  kindly  ser- 
geant to  show  me  through  it.  He  first  led  me  to  the 
great  bastion  that  projects  seaward  like  the  prow  of 
a  ship  and  that  is  still  mounted  with  its  antiquated 
artillery  thrusting  their  black  noses  through  deep 
embrasures.  This  battery  surrounds  an  open  court- 
yard beneath  which,  on  a  level  with  the  water,  lie 
the  prisons. 

The  great  tower  itself  contains  three  superposed 
chambers  with  massive  vaults  and  walls  ten  feet  in 
thickness.  Its  exterior  is  richly  ornamented,  its 
battlements  emblazoned  with  the  crosses  of  the  Mili- 
tary Order  of  Christ,  its  sea  face  enriched  with  a 
charming  loggia  and  its  angle  turrets  surmounted  by 
curious  melon-shaped  domes.  Despite  the  sordid 
gas-works  near  by,  the  place  is  redolent  of  other  days 
and  impregnated  with  the  tang  and  smell  of  the  sea 
and  alive  with  memories  of  the  Portuguese  mariners. 

But  the  real  temple  of  their  glory  is  the  vast 
church  and  monastery  near  by,  to  the  building  of 
which  Dom  Manoel  devoted  his  greatest  zeal.  He 
employed  the  most  renowned  architects  that  he  could 
find  to  carry  out  his  dream  and  an  army  of  sculp- 
tors and  carvers   to  chisel  and  fret  the   beautiful 

[16] 


LISBON 

limestone  of  Alc4ntara.  The  cold  purist  may  scoff 
at  the  result,  but  no  one  with  warm  artistic  per- 
ceptions can  withstand  the  fascination  of  these  fret- 
ted surfaces,  alive  with  ornaments  that,  in  the  hot 
southern  sunlight,  fleck  the  glaring  stones  with  a 
thousand  delicate  shadows. 

The  long  south  front  facing  the  avenue  forms  the 
principal  fagade,  and  is  cut  by  a  monumental  door- 
way that,  with  its  fantastic  array  of  pinnacles  and 
niches,  peopled  with  bishops  and  cardinals,  saints 
and  kings,  recalls  many  a  late-Gothic  entrance  in 
the  vicinity  of  Rouen — perhaps  for  the  reason  that 
one  of  its  architects  was  a  certain  Master  Nicholas, 
a  Frenchman,  who  introduced  the  first  Renaissance 
details  into  the  Portuguese  churches.  For  this  rea- 
son also  its  main  arch  is  round-headed,  and  it  casts 
a  lovely  golden  shadow  over  the  two  doors,  sep- 
arated by  a  pillar  upon  which,  occupying  the  place 
of  honor  in  the  central  niche,  stands,  not  the  usual 
Virgin  and  Child,  but  Prince  Henry  the  Navigator, 
patron  of  sailors  and  promoter  of  great  enterprises. 

On  passing  through  this  door  from  the  blinding 
sunlight  of  the  avenue  to  the  mysterious  gloom  of 
the  interior,  one's  first  impression  is  of  space  and 

[17] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

loftiness.  The  vaults  overhead,  the  deep,  dark 
chapels,  the  great  sustaining  walls,  are  almost  lost 
in  the  darkness.  Eight  slender  columns,  delicately 
proportioned  and  fretted  with  rich  ornament,  spring 
aloft  like  the  boles  of  royal  palms,  up  and  up,  until 
they  burst  like  fronds  into  reticulated  vaulting  of 
most  daring  design,  and  as  your  eye  grows  accus- 
tomed to  the  gloom,  they  take  on  mauve  shadows, 
shading  to  amber  as  the  light  strikes  upon  them 
through  the  colored  windows. 

This  church  is  the  sanctuary  of  Portugal's  glory, 
its  Westminster  Abbey,  so  to  speak,  the  most  evoca- 
tive of  its  buildings;  so  it  is  fitting  that  her  greatest 
sons  here  lie  buried.  In  the  transept,  side  by  side, 
rest  Vasco  da  Gama  and  Camoes,  her  chief  poet, 
author  of  her  national  epic,  the  immortal  "Lusiadas." 
Near  the  high  altar  lie  Manoel  the  Fortunate  and 
various  members  of  his  family,  and  in  a  corner  of 
the  cloisters  stands  the  monumental  tomb  of  Hercu- 
lano,  Portugal's  greatest  historian. 

To  enter  the  cloisters  you  must  pass  around  by 
the  west  door  which  in  some  ways,  though  less  fa- 
mous, is  more  interesting  than  that  of  the  south 
fagade.     It  is  purely  Portuguese  and  highly  char- 

[18] 


West  Door  of  the  Jeronymos,  Belem 


THROUGH   SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

acteristic  of  the  so-called  Manuelino  style,  the  most 
famous  examples  of  which  lie  in  other  parts  of  the 
country. 

This  style  has  been  variously  estimated  by  archi- 
tectural authorities.  Some  purists  see  in  it  noth- 
ing but  a  love  of  ornament  gone  wild,  a  hopeless 
riot  of  detail;  others  find  it  an  interesting  graft- 
ing of  Moorish  design  upon  the  Gothic;  others  still, 
a  transitional  form  between  the  Gothic  and  the 
Renaissance.  To  me,  however,  it  is  a  special  style, 
the  true  expression  of  the  very  soul  of  a  people,  of 
their  thoughts  and  aspirations,  and,  therefore,  good 
art.  The  soul  of  the  nation,  at  the  time  these  build- 
ings were  being  erected,  was  fired  by  extraordinary 
tales  of  far-off  lands,  of  adventures  overseas.  The 
one  topic  of  thought  and  conversation  was  voyages, 
expeditions  to  strange  countries  where  fabulous 
treasure  was  to  be  found.  And  later,  when  these 
same  treasures  brought  the  riches  adequate  to  carry 
out  their  dreams,  architects  and  sculptors  alike  wove 
into  these  ornaments  the  flora  and  fauna  of  the 
sea,  shells,  corals,  sea-urchins,  anemones,  and  ropes 
twisted  or  coiled  about  the  columns — architectural 
forms  never  seen  before  nor  since,  but  greatly  appre- 

[20] 


^i 


Church  of  the  Jcrouymos,  Bclem 


LISBON 

ciated  by  the  returning  sailors  and  adventurers,  who 
beheld  in  them  the  commemoration  of  their  exploits 
beyond  the  seas. 

The  cloisters  at  Belem,  forming  part  of  the  monu- 
ment erected  to  commemorate  Vasco  da  Gama's 
glorious  voyages,  fittingly  exhibit  the  various  char- 
acteristics of  this  style. 

Each  of  the  bays  is  divided  into  two  arches  and 
each  of  these  again  in  half  and  each  archway  is  hung 
with  elaborate  cusps  and  medallions  of  open  work 
containing  crosses  and  shells  or  caravels  under  full 
sail.  Colonettes  and  cusped  arches,  the  deep  reveals 
of  the  great  bays  and  their  pilasters,  the  rich  vaults 
of  the  cloisters,  and  the  parapets  and  towers  that 
cut  against  the  sky  are  all  frosted  with  elaborate 
details  of  mingled  Gothic  and  Renaissance,  but  time 
has  imparted  to  this  wealth  of  sculptured  ornament 
a  wonderful  patina  that  veils  its  exaggerations  and 
merges  its  elaborations  into  a  marvellously  rich  en- 
semble that  quite  disarms  criticism  by  its  sensuous 
appeal. 

A  similar  sumptuous  strain  pervades  the  minor 
arts  that  furnished  these  churches.  At  the  Bellas 
Artes  have  been  gathered  from  suppressed  convents 

[21] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

and  monasteries  glittering  arrays  of  monstrances  and 
reliquaries,  chalices,  and  processional  crosses,  mas- 
terpieces of  the  goldsmith's  art  made  of  the  first  pale 
gold  that  came  back  from  the  Indies.  The  laces  and 
embroideries  likewise  show  the  influence  of  Persian 
and  Indian  design.  The  cases  along  the  walls  shim- 
mer with  the  gold  brocades  of  Guimaraes  and  vel- 
vets from  Braganza  with  jewelled  copes  and  morses, 
mitres,  chasubles,  and  costly  altar  fronts. 

And  in  this  same  museum,  among  a  lot  of  rather 
dull  pictures,  you  will  find  to  your  surprise  some 
splendid  panels  by  an  old  Portuguese  painter  (per- 
haps the  only  one  worthy  to  rank  as  a  master)  one 
Nuno  Gongalves,  who  flourished  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  His  best  work  is  embodied  in  two  trip- 
tychs,  *'The  Veneration  of  Saint  Vincent,"  that  show 
the  undoubted  influence  of  Jan  van  Eyck,  who, 
when  he  visited  the  court  of  Portugal,  exerted  a 
great  influence  upon  the  painters  of  his  time.  In 
the  centre  of  each  composition,  Gongalves  has  placed 
the  saint,  a  radiant  figure,  clad  in  crimson  brocade, 
while  about  him  kneel  or  stand  a  variety  of  person- 
ages, princes  and  bishops,  friars  and  fishermen, 
knights  and  ladies,  characterized  with  remarkable 

[22] 


^/'S? 


G.CJPt^'r.'' 


Cloisters  of  the  Jeronymos,  Belem 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

fidelity,  each  portrait  head,  Hfe-size,  imbued  with 
the  keen  analysis  of  a  Holbein. 

The  Sunday  following  our  arrival  in  Lisbon  we  were 
awakened  by  the  explosion  of  foguetes,  or  small 
bombs,  almost  directly  under  our  window.  Soon 
voices  reached  our  ears  shrilly  crying,  "Sol  e  Som- 
bra !"  and  we  knew  that  a  bull-fight  was  on  for  that 
afternoon. 

I  lost  no  time  in  going  down  and  securing  places, 
for  I  very  much  wanted  to  see  a  Portuguese  bull- 
fight, which  is  a  very  different  affair  from  its  Spanish 
prototype.  This  happened  to  be  an  exceptionally 
good  one,  "dedicated  to  the  Colonia  Brazileira,"  as 
the  programme  stated,  so  the  Brazilian  ambassador 
occupied  the  box  of  honor,  and  of  the  ten  thousand 
arena  seats  not  a  single  one  was  empty.  Lisbon's 
bull-ring  is  a  very  handsome  affair  built  in  the  Moor- 
ish style,  with  huge  gray  minaret  domes  facing  the 
four  points  of  the  compass.  The  boxes  upon  this 
occasion  were  hung  with  bright  draperies,  and  the 
women  in  their  best  spring  attire  made  a  brilliant 
scene  indeed,  with  a  cloudless  vault  of  blue  over- 
head. 

[24] 


LISBON 

As  the  band  struck  up  the  national  anthem  the 
various  participants  entered,  for  there  are  many 
more  figurants  than  in  Spain. 

First  came  a  mule  covered  with  crimson  velvet 
carrying  the  handerilhas,  the  farpaSy  and  other  im- 
plements to  be  used  in  the  game.  TMien  it  had 
been  unloaded  and  led  out,  the  handerilheiros  entered 
with  the  cajpinhas,  eight  or  ten  of  them,  in  the  bril- 
liant costumes  of  Spanish  toreadors.  Then  came  a 
score  of  viogos  de  forcados^  whose  antics  I  shall  de- 
scribe later;  then  the  service  men;  and  lastly,  but 
by  no  means  least,  the  two  cavallciros,  the  famous 
Casimiros,  father  and  son,  the  heroes  of  the  occasion. 

These  cavalleiros,  as  their  name  implies,  are  horse- 
men, but  in  no  way  resemble  the  picador  on  his 
sorry  nag.  They  are  dressed  as  cavaliers  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  in  velvet  coats  handsomely  em- 
broidered and  trimmed  at  sleeve  and  throat  with 
beautiful  lace.  Lace  handkerchiefs  protrude  from 
their  pockets  and  their  high  boots  are  of  Russian 
leather.  They  mount  superb  horses  richly  saddled 
and  bridled,  with  nodding  plumes  upon  their  heads, 
that  go  through  complicated  paces  as  they  circle 
the  arena,  while  their  riders  bow  gallantly  and  grace- 

[25] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

fully  with  their  three-cornered  hats  to  the  wild 
plaudits  of  tlie  crowd. 

Then  the  ring  is  cleared,  with  the  exception  of  a 
horseman  and  a  single  capinha  with  his  red  cape  in 
hand.  The  horseman  takes  his  first  farpa  (a  long 
barbed  dart),  a  gate  is  opened,  and  a  big  black  bull 
enters. 

A  thrill  runs  up  your  spine  as  he  sniffs  the  air  and 
makes  a  wild  charge  at  the  brilliant  cavalier.  But 
the  horse  is  fleet,  the  rider  adept,  and  the  bull  slack- 
ens his  pace. 

Then  the  rider  challenges  him.  Rising  in  his 
stirrups,  he  calls,  "Eh,  boi !  Eh  boi!"  ("Come, 
bull")  until  the  great  beast  charges  again,  this  time 
coming  close  enough  to  receive  the  dart  directly  in 
the  shoulder-blade,  where  it  breaks  off,  leaving  one- 
half  in  the  horseman's  hand  with  a  flag  fluttering 
from  it.  A  second  barb  is  then  implanted  upon  the 
other  shoulder,  and  sometimes  others  still,  until  the 
cavalier  takes  a  shorter  dart  amid  great  enthusiasm, 
and  while  his  horse  is  galloping  at  full  speed  before 
the  enraged  bull,  leans  far  enough  out  of  his  saddle 
to  implant  this  also  at  the  base  of  the  animal's  neck. 

Jose  Casimiro,  the  son,  performed  this  feat  with 

[26] 


LISBON 

marvellous  dexterity  and  address,  and  the  salvos  of 
the  audience  were  deafening  as  he  rode  round  the 
ring,  his  horse  pacing  high  and  arching  its  neck  as 
if  it,  too,  shared  the  applause.  In  the  meantime 
the  bull  is  taken  out  by  a  herd  of  trained  oxen  that 
surroimd  it  and  by  their  peaceful  influence  allay  its 
fury  so  that  it  meekly  follows  them. 

In  the  Portuguese  fights,  barring  accidents,  which, 
of  course,  do  happen,  neither  horses  nor  men  are  in 
real  danger,  for  the  bull's  horns  are  padded  so  as  to 
be  quite  harmless.  The  bull  itself  is  never  killed. 
So,  having  none  of  the  cruelty  of  the  Spanish  fight 
and  all  of  its  picturesqueness  and  a  little  more,  it 
becomes  a  splendid  national  sport,  the  best  game 
that  I  have  seen,  and  as  gallant  a  show  as  may  be 
witnessed  in  this  humdrum  world  of  ours  to-day. 

According  to  the  usual  programme,  five  bulls  are 
given  to  the  cavalleiros  and  five  to  the  bandarilheiros, 
who,  having  placed  their  darts  after  the  Spanish 
fashion,  the  animal  is  then  given  over  to  the  homens 
de  forcados,  the  boldest  of  whom  literally  "takes  the 
bull  by  the  horns."  For  he  calmly  stands  before 
it  with  his  hands  behind  his  back  and  when  the  ani- 
mal tries  to  toss  him,  he  grabs  it  around  the  neck 

[27] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

and  swings  upon  its  head  up  and  down  until  his  com- 
panions, rushing  in  from  all  sides  hold  the  beast  and 
release  him.  It  is  a  thankless  task  and,  like  that  of 
the  circus  clown,  rewarded  with  laughter  rather 
than  cheers. 

These  games  are  capable  of  infinite  variety  and 
often  replete  with  thrilling  incidents.  Now  and 
then,  in  quest  of  new  sensations,  members  of  the 
nobility  of  sporting  proclivities  enter  the  arena  as 
cavalleiros. 

Upon  another  occasion  we  saw  a  ferro  or  branding 
of  wild  cattle  after  the  fashion  of  the  Alemtejo — a 
most  amusing  spectacle,  for  the  spirited  young  ani- 
mials  cavorted  about,  leaped  the  barriers,  and  scat- 
tered the  toreros  right  and  left  until  one  by  one  they 
were  thrown  by  the  horns  and  tied  for  branding. 

Afterward  there  is  the  drive  home,  toward  eve- 
ning, in  a  crush  of  vehicles  down  the  beautiful 
Avenida  shaded  by  its  quadruple  rows  of  stately 
trees  under  which  crowds  of  people,  sitting  or  prome- 
nading in  the  bright  spring  weather,  watch  the  gay 
cortege  go  by. 

At  the  lower  end  of  this  splendid  avenue,  a  sort  of 
cog-wheel  train,  half  street-car  and  half  elevator, 

[28] 


LISBON 

lifts  one  in  a  moment  to  an  upper  quarter  of  the 
town  and  to  the  httle  square  of  Sao  Pedro  d'Alcan- 
tara,  commonly  called  the  Gloria.  Go  there  some 
evening  toward  sunset  and  from  the  parapet  gaze 
down  upon  the  city  spread  beneath  you.  The  object 
upon  which  your  eye  first  rests  is  the  steep  hill  op- 
posite, a  huddle  of  houses,  white  and  pink,  standing 
upon  each  other's  shoulders  and  crowned  by  the 
walls  of  the  old  Moorish  stronghold  now  the  Castle 
of  St.  George.  Half-way  up,  the  venerable  Se  cuts 
its  sturdy  silhouette  against  the  broad  blue  waters 
of  the  Tagus  stretching  off  to  the  faint  flat  shores  of 
the  Alemtejo  with  Palmella's  town  and  castle  gleam- 
ing white  upon  her  distant  hill.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  valley,  near  the  railway-station,  Dom  Pedro, 
standing  atop  of  his  column,  marks  the  Rocio, 
called  Roly  Poly  Square  by  the  English  sailors  be- 
cause of  the  queer  undulating  pattern  of  its  pave- 
ment. The  press  of  houses  in  the  nearer  foreground 
is  cut  off  by  a  second  terrace  just  below  you,  set  out 
with  gardens  ornamented  with  busts  on  tall  pedestals 
and  with  soaring  palms  that  wave  their  rustling 
fronds  high  above  your  head. 

[29] 


II 

CINTEA 


CINTRA 

BUT  if  in  search  of  far  horizons,  it  is  to  Cintra 
that  you  must  go. 
A  short  hour  from  Lisbon  in  the  train  and 
the  engine  puffs  into  the  station  tired  with  its  con- 
stant chmb.  A  drive  through  the  rather  dull  town 
brings  you  to  a  little  English  hotel  that  for  three 
generations  has  housed  British  visitors.  Its  little 
landlady,  though  she  has  spent  some  sixty  years  of 
her  seventy-six  under  this  roof  in  Portugal,  is  as 
English  in  her  black  bombazine  and  white  bonnet 
as  if  she  had  but  just  landed  from  Southampton. 
When  she  leads  you  to  your  room  and  opens  the 
casement  you  will  fancy  yourself  in  the  terrestrial 
paradise. 

Deep  below,  a  tangled  glen  shelters  a  cascade 
whose  music  rises  to  your  ear;  the  perfume  of  rose 
and  white  locust  and  heliotrope  and  jasmine  is  wafted 
by  the  gentle  breeze,  while  the  eternal  mildness,  the 
sifted  sunlight  over  the  far-reaching  plains  stretch- 

[33] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

ing  to  the  broad  blue  ocean  that  bounds  the  horizon, 
make  an  impression  that  Hves  forever  in  the  memory. 
Tradition  has  it  that  in  one  of  these  rooms  (the 
one  in  the  corner  where  his  bust  stands  upon  a  table 
and  souvenirs  of  him  hang  framed  upon  the  walls) 
Lord  Byron  wrote  the  opening  cantos  of  "Childe 
Harold's  Pilgrimage": 

*'  Lo,  Cintra's  glorious  Eden  intervenes 
In  variegated  maze  of  mount  and  glen.'* 

His  rhapsodies  in  this  and  other  poems,  and  those 
of  Southey,  who  called  it  *'the  most  blessed  spot  in 
the  habitable  globe,"  have  done  much  for  its  fame, 
but,  except  by  the  English,  it  is  still  but  little  visited. 

Under  the  monarchy  C intra  was  the  summer  resi- 
dence of  the  royal  family,  the  queen  mother  living 
at  the  Palacio  Real  in  the  town  while  the  king  stayed 
above  at  the  Pena.  The  former  palace  is  a  strange 
mixture  of  Moorish  and  Christian  architecture.  Its 
dominant  features  externally  are  the  two  conical 
chimneys  once  covered  with  green  tiles  that  rise 
above  its  great  kitchens.  They,  of  course,  are  Moor- 
ish, as  are  most  of  the  exquisite  tiles  that  ornament 
the  various  rooms  and  halls. 

[34] 


^ 


Old  Royal  Palace,  Cintra 


CINTRA 

The  palace,  indeed,  is  a  veritable  museum  of 
Portuguese  azulejos  from  the  earliest  Arab  styles, 
whose  patterns  were  formed  by  slightly  raised  lines 
which  prevented  the  color  from  running  during  the 
firing,  through  the  later  rich  geometric  patterns,  to 
the  many  varieties  of  the  Renaissance,  both  natu- 
ralistic and  fanciful.  In  the  royal  dining-room  and 
the  Hall  of  the  Sirens  are  beautiful  tiles  richly  em- 
bossed with  vine  leaves  and  tendrils  and  crested  with 
fleur-de-lis.  In  the  cortilla  of  the  unfortunate  young 
Sebastian  are  his  exquisite  tiled  throne  and  the 
bench  for  his  ministers,  and  there  is  a  cool  Casa 
d'Agua,  or  House  of  the  Moorish  Baths,  where  deli- 
cate showers  gush  from  walls  of  tiles  and  splash  upon 
a  broad  stone  floor. 

The  older  Christian  portions  of  the  palace  date 
from  the  time  of  John  the  Great  and  his  English 
wife  Philippa  of  Lancaster.  He  it  was  who  built  the 
Swan  Room,  and  the  story  goes  that  while  it  was 
building,  ambassadors  came  from  the  Duke  of  Bur- 
gundy to  ask  the  king  for  the  hand  of  his  daughter 
Isabel.  Among  the  presents  they  brought  were 
several  swans,  which  delighted  the  princess  so  much 
that  she  asked  to  have  a  long  basin  fashioned  for 

[35] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

them  along  the  windows  that  skirt  the  Moorish 
court.  She  made  them  collars  of  velvet  and  fed 
them  with  her  own  hands.  Later,  when  she  de- 
parted for  far-off  Flanders,  King  John,  in  memory  of 
her,  had  her  swans  painted  in  the  octagonal  panels 
of  the  great  ceiling,  whence  the  name  of  the  room. 

Adjoining  this  hall  is  the  Sala  das  Pegas,  or  Hall 
of  the  Magpies.  Its  name  comes  from  another 
story  connected  with  the  same  king.  He  is  said  to 
have  been  attracted  by  a  certain  pretty  maid  of 
honor  and  to  have  innocently  kissed  her  when  pre- 
senting her  with  a  rose.  Another  maid  carried  the 
story  to  his  English  queen,  who  upbraided  him. 
His  reply  was  characteristic:  "E  por  bem,  minha 
senhora"  ("Platonic,  my  lady")  and  to  rebuke  the 
gossiping  maids  he  had  the  ceiling  of  this  room 
painted  with  chattering  magpies  each  bearing  in  its 
beak  his  motto,  '*Por  bem.*'  These  quaint  rooms 
and  the  Sala  das  Escudos,  or  Hall  of  Shields,  painted 
with  the  arms  of  the  chief  noble  families  of  that  time, 
each  shield  depending  from  a  stag's  neck,  form  the 
principal  features  of  the  palace,  its  later  additions 
offering  but  little  of  interest. 

The  Serra  de  Cintra,  that  purple  silhouette  that 

[30] 


CINTRA 

we  had  first  beheld  from  the  ocean,  is  an  exceedingly 
beautiful  succession  of  hills  in  whose  dimples  nestle 
glens  of  surpassing  loveliness.  In  them  you  might 
fancy  yourself  in  some  tropic  land — in  Guatemala, 
for  example — for  tree-ferns  spread  their  umbrella- 
like fronds  over  cascades  and  splashing  waters; 
laurestinas  and  daturas  grow  in  rich  profusion,  while 
roses  and  ferns  cover  the  huge  oak  and  cork  trees, 
and  under  your  feet  the  petals  of  azaleas,  magenta, 
pink  and  gray,  mingle  with  rich  camellias  and 
magnolias  to  form  a  carpet  soft  and  rich  in  color  as 
the  weave  of  a  Persian  loom.  Such  a  vale  is  lovely 
Monserrate,  the  princely  quinta  laid  out  by  Beck- 
ford,  of  Fonthill,  centuries  ago  and  still  owned  by 
an  Englishman,  Sir  Francis  Cook,  who  draws  his 
Portuguese  title  of  Visconde  therefrom. 

I  think  I  prefer,  however,  mysterious  Penha  Verde, 
once  the  home  of  Dom  Joao  de  Castro,  an  honest 
man  who  died  with  but  a  single  vintem  in  his  coffers, 
though  there  had  passed  through  his  hands  the  un- 
told wealth  of  India,  of  which  he  was  governor  for 
many  years.  All  the  reward  he  asked  for  his  suc- 
cessful siege  of  Diu  was  the  hill  with  the  six  trees, 
upon  which   the  chapel  now  stands — a  knoll  over- 

[37] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

looking  the  lovely  valley  of  Collares,  and  a  vast  ex- 
panse of  glen  and  hillsides  of  dense  pine  woods 
mounting  to  rocky  summits  that  touch  the  fleecy  sea 
clouds.  Penha  Verde  is  a  sad  dark  park,  if  you 
will,  but  filled  with  romantic  charm — with  mossy 
statues  aligning  green-carpeted  pathways  and,  at 
unexpected  corners,  capillas  and  quaint  fountains 
adorned  with  rare  Talavera  tiles  depicting  homely 
scenes  of  rustic  beauty. 

But  Cintra's  chief  enchantment  is  the  wonderful 
drive  up  the  mountain  to  the  two  highest  points  in 
the  range,  one  crowned  by  the  old  Moorish  castle 
walls,  hung  in  mid-air  as  it  were,  the  other  by  the 
Palace  of  the  Peiia. 

While  the  road  is  undoubtedly  beautiful  upon  a 
sunny  morning,  with  the  pungent  odor  of  the  pines 
in  your  nostrils  and  glimpses  at  each  turn  over  plain 
and  valley  as  you  mount  ever  higher  and  higher,  I 
shall  never  forget  it  on  a  certain  forenoon  when  the 
sky  was  gray  and  leaden.  During  the  night  the  sea 
fog  had  driven  in  and  blotted  the  hills  from  sight. 
AVe  thought  it  would  lift  later,  however,  so  called  a 
coachman  and  started  up. 

First,  the  vapory  clouds  were  well  above  our  heads 

[38] 


Entrance  to  the  Pena,  Cintra 


CINTRA 

but,  as  we  mounted,  the  air  freshened  and  the  pines 
began  to  bend  and  their  needles  to  hum  in  the  gather- 
ing wind.  Then  all  but  the  nearest  objects  vanished; 
then  the  vapors  would  lift  again  and  dim  silhouettes 
appear  like  prints  on  Japanese  kakemonos:  writhing 
tree-forms  and  great  granite  boulders.  Each  twist 
of  the  road  brought  us  more  completely  into  a  realm 
of  dreams,  of  goblin-shapes  and  grotesque  outlines, 
until  we  turned  at  last  through  a  gate,  a  green-coated 
official  saluted  us,  and  we  strained  up  to  a  massive 
portal — a  fantastic  creation  in  the  dim  light  like  the 
entrance  to  an  enchanted  castle. 

Here  I  sketched  for  a  while  until  patches  of  blue 
opened  above  my  head  and  flecks  of  sunshine  darted 
through  the  trees.  The  areas  of  clear  sky  grew 
larger,  and  then,  as  if  by  the  wand  of  a  magician, 
the  sun  dispersed  the  cohorts  of  the  fogs  and  mists 
and  the  noonday  burst  serene. 

I  climbed  to  the  aerial  terraces  of  the  castle  and 
there  below  lay  the  great  province  of  Estremadura 
spread  out  like  a  map  in  every  direction.  "VMiat  a 
sense  of  space,  of  vision  without  limit !  What  exhil- 
aration to  stand  in  this  proud  eagle's  nest  and  sur- 
vey the  unbroken  stretch  of  land  and  sea ! 

[39] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Vast  plains  dotted  with  pink-roofed  farms  and 
villages  stretched  to  the  northward  and  to  the  east- 
ward— to  the  spires  of  Mafra's  convent  as  large  as 
the  Escorial;  to  the  lines  of  Torres  Vedras,  where 
Wellington  finally  stopped  the  all-conquering  march 
of  the  Napoleonic  armies;  to  the  faint  blue  moun- 
tains, one  behind  the  other,  that  culminate  at  last 
in  the  Estrella,  the  Mountains  of  the  Stars. 

But  the  eye  quickly  turns  from  these  and  focuses 
upon  the  mouth  of  the  Tagus,  the  source  of  Lisbon's 
beauty  and  of  its  wealth — its  raison  d'etre.  This, 
too,  is  the  high  light  of  the  picture,  though  the  city 
itself  half  hides  behind  Its  hills.  All  lines  lead  to  it: 
the  glittering  white  roads  drawn  like  ribbons  over 
the  green  fields;  the  dazzling  sickle  of  the  white  sand- 
bars that  skirt  the  sea  to  the  south;  even  the  vessels 
that  creep  in  and  out  from  the  broad  blue  Atlantic 
stretching  forever  to  the  westward. 

And  again  I  thought  of  all  the  mariners  that  had 
set  out  upon  this  treacherous  sea,  so  many  of  them 
never  to  return,  and  of  their  comrades,  who,  even  if 
they  did  survive,  bronzed  and  grizzled  by  their 
buffets,  came  back  stricken  with  strange  tropical 
fevers.     Yet  others  persevered,  with  the  indomitable 

[40] 


CINTRA 

spirit  of  their  forebears,  bringing  home  the  first  black 
men  from  Cabo  Branco  to  work  the  fields  of  the 
Algarves,  the  spices  and  ivory  from  Guinea,  and, 
finally,  when  the  goal  was  reached,  the  wealth  of 
Malabar  and  Burma  to  the  gates  of  Lisbon.  And 
yet  in  a  single  century  after  this  golden  age  of 
achievement,  sapped  by  corruption  and  enervated 
by  its  new-found  wealth,  the  little  Portuguese  nation, 
shorn  of  its  colonies,  had  sunk  from  its  position 
as  the  wealthiest  and  proudest  in  Europe  to  be  a 
mere  province  of  Spain.  This  is  the  lesson  that  its 
history  teaches:  that  not  upon  its  wealth  and  com- 
mercial prosperity  does  the  greatness  of  a  nation 
depend  so  much  as  upon  the  high  ideals  and  en- 
deavors and  the  stout  hearts  and  rugged  sinews  of 
its  people. 

Many  times  during  our  stay  in  Cintra  did  I  walk 
these  castle  terraces,  now,  since  the  departure  of  the 
royal  family,  freely  open  to  all,  and  always  did  I  find 
new  beauty  in  the  changing  moods  of  the  picture. 


[41] 


in 

PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 


ALCOBACA 

ON  a  certain  Sunday  morning  we  set  out  from 
Lisbon  to  visit  Portugal's  battle  abbeys — 
her  monumental  trilogy,  her  splendid  trip- 
tych, as  I  like  to  call  them:  Alcobaca,  singing  the 
praises  of  her  rude  conquistador  Affonso  Henriques; 
Batalha,  built  by  John  the  Great,  hero  of  Aljubar- 
rota,  and  Thomar,  stronghold  of  the  inspired  disci- 
ples of  Henry  the  Navigator.  They  lie  away  from 
the  railway  lines  and  from  this  fact  are  a  little  incon- 
venient of  access,  but  to  me  that  is  an  attraction 
rather  than  a  drawback,  for  no  tourist  caravan 
breaks  the  spell  nor  disturbs  the  harmony  of  the 
impression. 

As  you  leave  the  capital,  the  train  skirts  the  sea 
for  several  hours,  not  indeed  within  sight  of  its 
breakers,  for  these  are  hidden  by  intervening  dunes, 

[45] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

but  through  pine  woods,  up-hill  and  down,  and  across 
sandy  plains.  Even  this  short  bit  of  railroad  is  re- 
plete with  souvenirs — those,  for  example,  that  cluster 
round  Pefia  Castle  high  perches  to  the  left  upon 
Cintra's  mountain  and  about  the  huge  convent- 
palace  of  Mafra,  built  by  the  pietistic  John  V. 
Then  you  thread  the  steep  declivities  of  Torres 
Vedras,  into  whose  flanks  Wellington  dug  those  stu- 
pendous trenches — marvels  of  military  art — that 
stopped  Massena's  onward  march  forever  and  turned 
the  tide  of  Napoleon's  career.  An  hour  later  you 
spy  Obidos,  the  feudal  stronghold  of  Diniz  the 
Good,  rising  proudly  upon  a  hill,  clad  in  all  the 
majesty  of  its  walls  and  towers,  its  long  lines  of 
battlements  securely  enfolding  the  vassal  town  that 
looked  to  it  for  protection. 

Then,  in  a  lovely  valley,  the  big  pink  Hotel 
Lisbonense  tells  of  the  continued  vogue  of  the  famous 
sulphur  baths,  the  Caldas  da  Rainha,  whose  hospi- 
tal, capable  of  sheltering  some  four  hundred  pa- 
tients, was  founded  nearly  five  centuries  ago  by 
Leonora,  wife  of  John  II.  Here  you  may  alight,  if 
you  wish,  and  drive  to  Alcobaca,  but  we  preferred 
to  go  by  rail  as  far  as  Vallado. 

[46] 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 

I  had  not  written  ahead  for  a  carriage,  trusting 
rather  to  luck.  So  when  we  left  the  station,  and  I 
saw   half   a   dozen   vehicles  drawn   up   before  it,   I 


f 


'^''  A. 


If 


**SiUing  Sideways  on  Their  Patient  Donkeys" 


thought  that  all  was  well.  What  was  my  surprise, 
however,  to  find  each  of  them  engaged !  A  party 
now  issued  from  the  little  station  and  began  divid- 
ing itself  among  them,  while  we,  at  almost  noon,  saw 

[47] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

visions  of  ourselves  stranded  here  for  hours  with  no 
carriage  nearer  than  Alcobaca  itself. 

I  spoke  to  one  of  the  men  (they  were  a  distin- 
guished-looking group),  and  he  said  that  perhaps 
they  could  double  up  so  as  to  leave  one  cab  free. 
And  so  they  managed  to  do  and  we  were  able,  after 
all,  to  bundle  our  persons  and  our  luggage  into  a 
vehicle  and  join  the  procession  of  shouting  jehus  in 
a  cloud  of  dust. 

The  road  was  gay  with  peasants  returning  from 
Alcobaca,  so  we  knew  it  must  be  market-day. 
"Wliat  bright  pictures  they  made,  these  pretty  girls, 
sitting  sideways  on  their  patient  donkeys,  their 
heads  done  up  in  fresh  kerchiefs;  their  lithe  bodies 
in  crisp  ginghams,  and  their  cotton  cloths  printed 
with  capricious  colors  for  which  the  country  here- 
abouts has  long  been  noted !  Old  men  and  young 
in  bag-caps  and  tight  breeches  walked  with  them, 
carrying  long  staves  to  guide  or  goad  their  calves 
and  the  clean  pink  pigs  that  squealed  along  the  road. 
We  crossed  the  little  Alcoa  near  a  waterfall  and  soon 
clattered  into  Alcobaca. 

Before  the  great  Cistercian  Abbey  and  all  about 
it  under  the  plane-trees  the  market  was  in  progress, 

[  48  ] 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 

pottery  and  glassware,  vegetables  and  fruits,  in 
tempting  profusion,  but  we  rattled  on  through  it  to 
the  modest  hotel. 

When  we  entered  the  little  dining-room  for  a 
tardy  luncheon,  we  found  our  party  of  the  station 
seating  itself  at  a  long  table  much  beflowered  that 
stretched  through  the  middle  of  the  room.  One  of 
the  men  stared  at  me  and  I  at  him,  for  there  was 
something  familiar  about  his  face.  Then  we  both 
uttered  an  exclamation,  for  we  had  been  fellow 
students  at  the  Academy  in  Paris  years  before. 
He  asked  us  to  join  his  party — members  of  the  Na- 
tional Association  of  Portuguese  Architects — who 
had  come  to  visit  the  monastery,  and  introduced 
us  to  several  of  its  members,  men  of  distinction,  one 
of  whom  I  remember  was  in  charge  of  the  restora- 
tions of  the  Jeronymos  at  Belem,  another  of  Lisbon 
Cathedral,  as  well  as  winner  of  the  competition  for 
the  great  monument  to  the  Marquis  de  Pombal 
which  is  to  close  the  vista  at  the  end  of  the  Ave- 
nida. 

Of  course  we  accepted  his  invitation  with  plea- 
sure. After  the  inevitable  champagne  that  closed 
the  lunch,  the  mayor  sent  flowers  to  the  ladies,  and 

[49] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

a  delegation  waited  outside  to  take  us  through  the 
convent. 

This  was  founded  in  the  twelfth  century  by  Af- 
fonso  Henriques,  first  king  of  Portugal.  Step  by  step 
with  his  crusaders,  he  had  been  driving  the  Moors 
from  the  north,  from  one  stronghold  to  another. 
Santarem,  key  to  the  Tagus,  was  now  his  objective, 
and  he  had  vowed  to  Saint  Bernard  of  Clairvaux 
that,  if  he  were  successful  in  taking  it,  he  would  erect 
a  monastery  upon  the  spot  at  which  he  that  day  lay 
in  camp,  and  would  give  to  it  and  to  the  Cistercian 
order  all  the  land  that  stretched  between  it  and  the 
sea.  He  won,  and  the  monastery  was  founded  by 
the  monks  of  Clairvaux  called  hither  to  build  it. 

It  became  in  time  one  of  the  richest  and  largest 
convents  in  Christendom,  with  perpetual  masses 
celebrated  by  a  thousand  monks.  The  church, 
though  grand,  is  heavy  and  stern,  its  nave  walled  in 
by  massive  columns  that  completely  screen  the  tall 
narrow  aisles.  Some  of  its  chapels  are  garish  and 
dilapidated,  but  others  contain  monuments  of  the 
greatest  beauty  and  interest. 

Affonso  Henriques  was  not  buried  here,  but  his  im- 
mediate successors  were — Affonso  II  and  III  in  mod- 

[50] 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 

est  tombs  in  the  transept,  and  Pedro  I  and  his  beloved 
Inez  de  Castro  in  a  separate  chamber  near  by.  The 
unhappy  story  of  this  pair  is  the  favorite  love-theme 
in  Portuguese  poetry.  Knowing  of  Pedro's  deep 
passion  for  this  lovely  woman,  jealous  enemies  had 
Inez  murdered  when  he  was  away  at  the  wars.  Upon 
his  return,  hardened  in  character  and  known  as  Peter 
the  Severe,  he  first  revenged  himself  cruelly  upon  her 
murderers.  Then  he  had  her  body  brought  to  Alco- 
baca  with  great  pomp  and  set  upon  a  throne,  while 
he  and  his  courtiers  did  homage  to  her 


*'  Que,  despois  de  ser  morta,  foi  Rainha 


j> 


was  queen  only  after  her  death. 

He  commanded  that  he  be  buried  with  his  feet 
toward  hers,  so  that  the  first  object  to  meet  his  gaze 
upon  arising  on  judgment-day  should  be  his  beloved 
one,  so  cruelly  parted  from  him  on  earth. 

Both  tombs  are  exquisitely  sculptured.  His  is  later 
and  perhaps  finer  than  hers,  but  hers  is  imbued  with 
a  naive  spirit  of  tender  solicitude,  the  tribute  of  the 
nameless  workmen  who  carved  its  rich  niches  and 
filled  them  with  touching  episodes  of  the  martjT- 
dom  of  the  saints  and  the  scenes  of  the  last  judg- 

[51] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

ment.  Many  of  the  little  figures,  Tanagra-like  in 
their  charming  grace,  are  dressed  in  the  picturesque 
costume  of  the  day.  His  tomb  is  borne  by  lions; 
hers  by  sphinxes,  and  upon  each  rests  a  recumbent 
effigy:  hers  crowned,  with  hands  crossed  upon  her 
breast  and  the  serene  expression  of  one  sleeping; 
his  bearded,  like  all  the  early  monarchs  of  his  house, 
with  sword  in  hand,  and  at  his  feet  his  faithful 
couchant  hound.  Each  statue  is  tended  by  six  an- 
gels whose  loving  concern  and  tender  care  are  feel- 
ingly depicted. 

Alcobaca's  sacristy,  once  piled  with  rich  vest- 
ments; its  sunlit  gardens,  its  vast  and  gruesome 
hall  of  relics;  its  extensive  cloisters,  of  which  there 
were  no  less  than  five;  and  the  vast  dormitories 
that  stretch  interminably  about  each  of  them,  all 
proclaim  the  ancient  splendor  of  the  place.  Its 
fame,  however,  never  rested  upon  its  artistic  trea- 
sures, for  its  monks  dazzled  rather  by  the  opulence 
and  extravagance  of  their  life. .  If  you  wish  a  pic- 
ture of  it,  visit  the  kitchen. 

Never  have  I  seen  such  a  vast  temple  of  cookery, 
and  never  do  I  expect  to  see  such  another — such  a 
perfect   apotheosis   of   kitchens!     All   the   tales   of 

[52] 


l.tf=^.l.v\«  .»^ 


The  Tomb  of  Dom  Pedro,  Alcohaqa 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 

gluttonous  cenobltes,  all  the  Rabelaisian  stories  of 
Pantagruel  and  Gargantua  come  to  mind  and  seem 
surpassed  as  you  gaze  aloft  at  its  soaring  vaults  that 
rise  high  as  the  groined  roof  of  a  cathedral.  In  its 
centre  stand  gigantic  ovens  capped  by  an  enormous 
conical  chimney  that  rivals  the  famous  one  at  Cintra. 
Near  by,  against  the  lateral  wall,  is  a  fireplace,  a 
perfect  cavern  large  enough  to  roast  a  spitted  ox, 
while  along  the  walls,  fountains  of  water  gush  from 
sculptured  lion-heads  into  huge  basins  the  size  of 
Roman  baths,  in  which  vegetables  and  fruits,  and 
the  complicated  batteries  de  cuisine  were  washed. 

Down  the  entire  length  of  the  chamber  runs  a 
rivulet,  one  of  the  affluents  of  the  Alcoa,  a  runnel  of 
limpid  water  ever  fresh  and  pure,  while  in  a  piscina, 
at  its  lower  end,  the  river  fish  kept  swimming  until 
popped  into  the  pots.  Beckford  saw  the  place  in 
its  full  glory,  and  gives  a  glowing  account  of  its 
plethora:  its  cart-loads  of  game  and  venison,  its 
mountains  of  sugar  and  jars  of  purest  oil  (and  such 
oil  as  they  have  in  Portugal),  and  its  ''pastry  in 
vast  abundance,"  skilfully  prepared  by  lay  brothers 
"singing  all  the  while  as  blithely  as  larks  in  corn- 
fields." 

[53] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Now,  alas,  Alcobaca*s  glory  has  departed !  Its 
cloisters  are  used  as  barracks,  and  all  that  is  cooked 
in  these  glorious  kitchens  is  rations  of  bean  soup 
and  the  like  delicacies  of  the  modern  soldier. 

That  night  I  tried  my  first  hard  Portuguese  bed. 
^Mien  I  say  hard  I  mean  hard  as  a  rock.  As  I  con- 
template the  kings  and  queens  in  effigy  stretched 
upon  their  granite  tombs  in  peaceful  slumber,  their 
heads  resting  on  stone  pillows,  I  think  of  them  as 
true  Portuguese  sleeping  their  eternal  sleep  upon  the 
same  couches  that  they  used  to  occupy  in  life ! 


[54] 


II 

BATALHA  AND  LEIRIA 

EARLY  in  the  morning,  a  day  or  two  later, 
a  carriage  stood  before  the  inn  waiting  to 
take  us  on  to  Batalha.  The  road  first  leads 
up  a  long  hill  and  from  the  top  you  look  back  upon 
the  great  monastery  nestled  in  its  comfortable  valley 
well  sheltered  from  inclement  winds.  Then  you 
cross  a  plateau  and  shortly  rattle  into  the  cobbly 
streets  of  Aljubarrota. 

What  memories  this  village  name  evokes !  ^Miat 
a  thrilling  period  of  Portuguese  history !  The  male 
line  of  the  house  of  Burgundy  had  become  extinct, 
and  the  only  daughter  had  married  into  the  family 
of  Castile.  The  Portuguese,  fearing  for  their  inde- 
pendence, elected  as  their  sovereign  John,  master  of 
the  Order  of  Aviz,  and  bastard  of  their  last  monarch. 
Notwithstanding  this,  the  Spanish  King  came  to 
claim  the  throne  supported  by  all  the  strength  of 
his  armies. 

Here  at  Aljubarrota  the  decisive  battle  was  waged. 
As  you  look  down  over  the  field,  you  can  picture 

[53] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

the  Castilians  in  all  the  pomp  of  their  steel  accoutre- 
ments and  the  pride  of  their  ten  pieces  of  artillery, 
the  jBrst  ever  used  in  the  peninsula,  drawn  up  against 
the  little  Portuguese  army,  one-fifth  their  size,  that 
had  been  hastily  gathered  together  by  John  of  Aviz. 

Upon  the  eve  of  the  battle,  Assumption  Day,  John 
made  a  vow  that  if  he  won  he  would  build  a  church, 
the  fairest  in  the  land,  to  Our  Lady  of  Victory.  He 
won,  and  Batalha,  Battle  Abbey,  was  the  result. 
After  we  had  looked  over  the  battle-field,  we  were 
shown  the  bake-shop  in  the  little  square,  where  the 
baker's  wife  killed  seven  Spanish  soldiers  with  her 
oven-peel  and  thus  gave  to  the  Portuguese  language 
one  of  its  famous  sayings:  "As  full  of  the  devil  as 
the  baker's  wife  of  Aljubarrota." 

Then  we  drove  on  again  through  the  odorous  pine 
woods  of  a  rather  deserted  country.  But  few  houses 
were  to  be  seen,  and  when  we  did  approach  a  habita- 
tion the  children  indulged  in  a  new  form  of  begging. 
They  would  kneel  by  the  roadside,  their  hands 
clasped  as  if  in  prayer  and  their  roguish  eyes  turned 
heavenward.  As  we  approached,  they  would  jump 
to  their  feet  and  run  along  by  the  carriage  holding 
out  suppliant  hands.     But  as  they  were  both  rosy- 

[56] 


Batalha 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

cheeked  and  neatly  clothed,  these  touching  appeals 
failed  to  arouse  our  sympathy,  but  stirred  us  rather 
to  mirth. 

Finally,  we  began  to  descend,  and  came  at  length 
upon  a  monumental  bridge  adorned  with  parapets 
and  pinnacled  buttresses,  and  then  of  a  sudden  the 
towers  and  gables  and  crested  roofs  of  Batalha's 
great  mpnastery-church  stood  disclosed  before  us. 
WTiat  an  amazing  pile  it  is,  tucked  away  in  a  quiet 
valley  miles  from  anywhere — a  metropolitan  cathe- 
dral lost  in  a  wilderness ! 

Time  has  imparted  to  its  pale  limestone  a  glorious 
golden  tone  that,  in  the  southern  sun,  fairly  glows 
in  contrast  with  the  dense  green  woods  that  sur- 
round it.  As  you  come  nearer,  however,  the  effect 
is  somewhat  disappointing.  Its  low  situation,  com- 
bined with  its  simple  fagade  and  long  flat  roofs  de- 
void of  spires,  fail  at  first  to  give  it  the  uplift  and 
spring  of  the  great  Gothic  churches. 

But  the  more  you  view  it  from  other  angles,  the 
more  beauty  you  discover  in  its  varied  surfaces,  in 
the  lift  of  its  weather-beaten  buttresses,  in  the  deli- 
cate traceries  of  its  tall  lancet  windows  and  the  rich- 
ness of  its  pierced  battlements  and  crocketed  pinna- 

[58] 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 

cles  silhouetted  against  the  clear  1^1  ue  sky.  Cold 
English  ecclesiologists,  like  Fergusson,  find  less  to 
admire  in  it  than  do  the  more  warm-blooded  French 
authorities  who  readily  yield  to  the  fascination  of 
its  picturesque  appeal.  And  surely  I  shall  side  with 
these,  and,  despite  its  evident  faults,  vote  it  com- 
parable to  any  of  the  greatest  churches  of  Europe. 

Its  nave  is  truly  superb,  simple,  grave,  and  pe- 
culiarly pure  and  solemn,  its  great  golden  walls  and 
aisles  unbroken  by  chapel  or  ornament.  Near  the 
west  door,  however,  opens  a  square  chamber,  the 
Capella  do  Fundador,  an  exquisite  chapel,  whose 
stilted  arches,  with  cusps  and  capitals  painted  in 
the  Hispanic  taste,  spring  high  in  air  to  support  a 
tall  octagonal  lantern,  fitting  like  a  crown  over  the 
tombs  of  the  greatest  family  in  the  history  of  Por- 
tugal. 

Directly  under  the  dome,  gazing  upward  at  its 
groined  vaults,  lie  the  founders  of  the  house:  John 
of  Aviz,  surnamed  the  Great,  and  his  wife  Philippa 
of  Lancaster,  daughter  of  John  of  Gaunt,  he  clad  in 
his  tabard  inscribed  with  the  royal  arms,  she  hold- 
ing her  prayer-book.  Side  by  side  their  effigies  lie, 
hand  clasped  in  hand,  and  as  we  looked  at  them  a 

[59] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

long  shaft  of  light  shot  down  from  one  of  the  painted 
windows  overhead  and  touched  the  grave  recum- 
bent figures  with  glory,  with  a  halo  almost  miracu- 
lous, that  shone  like  silver  in  the  glowing  chapel. 

In  niches  along  the  wall  repose  their  noble  chil- 
dren "inclita  geragao,  altos  infantes":  John  the 
master  of  Santiago;  Peter  the  Traveller;  Fernando 
the  Martyr,  who  died  a  hostage  in  the  prisons  of 
Fez,  rather  than  allow  his  country  to  exchange  Ceuta 
for  him;  and  the  great  Henry,  surnamed  the  Navi- 
gator, the  hero  of  Portuguese  maritime  exploration. 
His  monument,  the  only  one  adorned  with  an  efiBgy 
— a  wrinkled,  clean-shaven,  thoughtful  face — bears 
as  its  motto  "talent  de  bien  fere." 

John's  eldest  son,  named  Duarte  for  England's 
king,  is  buried  with  his  queen  directly  in  front  of 
the  high  altar.  He  it  was  who  dreamed  of  the 
Capellas  Imperfeitas,  those  marvels  of  ivory-like 
carving  designed  as  a  mausoleum  for  himself  and 
for  his  children.  As  their  name  implies,  they  never 
were  completed.  Their  pillars  rise  almost  to  the 
spring  of  the  vaulting  that  was  to  roof  them  in,  but 
the  giant  vaults  were  never  constructed,  for  Manoel 
at  the  critical  moment  transferred  his  zeal  and  his 
riches  to  the  buildings  at  Belem. 

[60] 


An  Angle  of  the  CloiMcrs,  Baialha 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 

The  ten  chapels  that  were  to  receive  the  tombs 
surround  a  great  central  chamber,  occupying  a  place 
at  the  extreme  east  end  of  the  cathedral,  though  not 
now  connected  with  the  main  church,  the  entire 
group  forming  a  sort  of  Lady  Chapel  like  those  in 
the  English  cathedrals.  In  its  earlier  portion,  this 
chapel  is  Gothic,  but  its  later  additions  fall  into  the 
Manueline  style  in  its  full  exuberance.  Its  main 
portal,  the  one  that  was  eventually  to  connect  it 
with  the  ambulatory  of  the  cathedral,  is  one  of  the 
most  florid  and  daring  doorways  in  existence — a 
maze  of  jewel-like  carving  that  overpowers  the  senses 
by  its  magnificence.  The  great  cloister  is  more 
restrained,  though  each  of  its  arches  is  enriched  by 
elaborate  screens,  whose  superb  and  robust  traceries 
filter  the  hot  southern  sunshine  without  excluding 
it.  Its  buttresses  are  crowned  with  foliated  pinna- 
cles; its  parapets,  like  those  of  the  main  walls  and 
clerestory  of  the  church,  are  enriched  with  elaborate 
pierced  fretwork,  and  it  is  dominated  by  the  only 
spire  of  the  cathedral,  so  that  its  outline  against 
the  sky  is  of  the  utmost  beauty. 

But  the  varied  architectural  features  of  Batalha 
are  too  manifold  to  describe.  Its  exquisite  chapter- 
house; the  delicate  fountain-court,  a  perfect  laby- 

[Cl] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

rinth  of  enrichment;  the  mazes  of  its  lesser  cloisters 
and  vast  stone  roofs,  form  an  ensemble  that  would 
be  difficult  to  match,  and  truly  fit  it  for  the  major 
theme  in  this  trilogy  of  battle  abbeys  that  we  had 
set  out  to  see. 

So  it  was  with  keen  regret  at  the  shortness  of 
our  stay  that  we  drove  on  toward  Leiria  when  the 
afternoon  shadows  began  to  lengthen.  The  road 
lay  at  first  through  woods,  and  then  we  began  to 
catch  glimpses  of  the  lovely  valley  of  the  Liz,  a 
favorite  theme  in  Portuguese  song  and  story.  And 
truly  a  charming  countryside  it  is — a  veritable 

"Jardin  a  beira-mar  plantado." 

The  little  houses,  neat  and  trim,  the  peasantry, 
self-respecting  and  apparently  happy,  the  climate 
clement,  the  vegetation  luxuriant,  the  fields  well 
cared  for — what  more  could  be  desired  ! 

Next  morning  I  found  myself  in  Leiria — a  willing 
prisoner  at  my  hotel  window,  watching  the  world  go 
by.  No  theatre  could  provide  so  good  an  entertain- 
ment. In  the  background  the  river  swung  round  a 
bend,  and  upon  its  stony  bed  the  women  had  spread 
their  clothes  to  dry,  while  they,  knee-deep  in  the 

[m] 


.><^^ .-   ■  ^^ 


'■•^ 


^i 


i'.,  5  ■-•?S:p<^X^A5^^-•■ 


'••^^  -■■-■•."•"•.■."■•    '*-» 


r/ie  Castle,  Leiria 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

water,  beat  their  linen  upon  the  rocks.  To  the  left, 
crowning  its  steep  hill,  the  great  castle  of  Diniz  the 
Good  loomed  grandly  against  the  sky,  smiling  con- 
descendingly down  upon  the  humble  houses  of  the 
town  that  peeped  up  at  it  over  acacias  and  plane- 
trees. 

Across  the  broad  foreground  a  procession  of  people 
went  by,   each   to  his  allotted   task — from   left   to 
right  the  peasants,  setting  forth  for  their  fields  with 
hoe  or  rake  on  shoulder,  each  man  with  his  basket 
linked  into  the  handle,  each  woman  carrying  hers 
upon  her  head.     Students  in  groups  of  two  or  three, 
hatless,   in  long  black  coats,   walked  arm  in  arm 
toward  the  seminary;  while  girls,  lithe  and  straight 
as    nymphs,    balanced    tall    amphorae    upon    their 
heads  as  they  went  to  draw  water  from  the  fountain 
adjoining  the  hotel.     From  right  to  left  the  country 
people  flocked  into  the  town   (for  it  was  market- 
day),  each  woman  mounted  upon  her  patient  donkey 
heaped  with  panniers,  upon  which  she  sat  sideways, 
her  black-velvet  tambourine-shaped  hat  cocked  for- 
ward  and   to   one  side,   and   perched  upon   a   gay 
kerchief  that  hung  to  her  waist.     The  men,  sober 
and   black   in  bag-cap  and  sash,  drove  their  ani- 

[64] 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 


mals  before  them,  and  once  in  a  while  a  great  ox- 
wain  would  go  creaking  by,  preceded  by  its  driver 


Vm-*": 


l3M 


il-KsfL'/ 


1  ■      1  l-l'l 


^^c7v^'"l.^"^l'^^^  ^fnAHMKUAl /      _  ^ 1  . 


The  Market,  Leiria 


with  his  goad  in  hand.     The  donkey-bells  tinkled, 
the  chimes  sounded  from  the  steeple  on  the  hill — 

[65] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

small  wonder  that  the  people   looked   happy   and 
content. 

Later  on  we  walked  through  the  market,  admiring 
the  quaint  costumes  of  the  peasants.  Then  we 
climbed  the  hill  to  the  castle.  This  is  the  splendid 
ruin  of  an  early  mediaeval  stronghold,  still  preserving 
among  tottering  walls  and  towers  that  make  one 
shiver  at  their  instability,  its  pure  Gothic  chapel,  its 
towering  keep,  and  its  old  casements  flanked  by 
their  stone  window-seats  that  overlook  the  rich  and 
fertile  valley. 

We  sat  for  some  time  quite  alone  in  the  shadow  of 
a  bastion  and  gazed  far  out  over  the  vast  expanse  of 
country.  Immediately  below  us,  the  diaper  of  pottery 
roofs — most  of  them  old  and  weather-beaten,  but  lit 
up  here  and  there  with  bright  new  red  ones — formed 
endless  patterns,  among  which  opened  the  square 
with  its  tiny  black  figures  clustered  under  big  um- 
brellas. A  white,  snakelike  road  led  off  toward  the 
river,  and  then  on  again  to  the  bull-ring,  near  which, 
on  a  monticle,  a  long  succession  of  stations  of  the 
cross  ascended  to  a  pilgrim  church,  S.  Agostino. 
The  rattle  of  an  ox-wagon,  the  bray  of  a  donkey,  a 
distant  bugle-note  were  the  only  sounds  that  broke 
the  utter  stillness  of  the  summer  morning. 

[66] 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 

Diniz  the  Good,  the  "Re  Lavrador,"  poet  and 
friend  of  poets  whose  ritournelles  and  pastorcllas  set 
the  fashion  for  all  the  earlier  bards  of  his  kingdom, 
made  this  castle  his  favorite  residence.  And  cer- 
tainly he  must  have  loved  the  spot,  he  the  "hus- 
bandman," who  taught  his  subjects  that  the  arts  of 
peace  were  equal  to  those  of  war,  giving  to  them 
their  constitution,  their  code  of  laws,  and  founding 
for  them  their  great  University  of  Coimbra. 

To  the  westward  still  stretches  the  vast  Pinhal 
Real,  the  royal  pine  woods,  planted  by  his  orders  to 
solidify  the  shifting  sand-dunes  and  purify  the  air, 
and  later  to  yield  the  stout  timbers  that  were  to 
build  the  ships  that  carried  the  flag  of  Portugal  to 
the  very  ends  of  the  earth.  Their  broad,  sombre 
masses  made  striking  contrast  to  the  bright  vine- 
yards and  olive  orchards  that  stretch  off  to  the  hills 
which,  fainter  and  yet  more  faint,  fringe  the  horizon 
in  every  direction. 

Leiria  proved  so  attractive  that,  though  we  had 
only  thought  to  spend  the  night,  we  lingered  for 
another  day  or  two.  We  climbed  at  sundown  to  the 
pilgrim  church,  and,  with  two  old  wooden-shoed 
crones,  enjoyed  the  proud  profile  of  the  castle  silhou- 
etted against  the  sunset  sky.     The  evening  chimes 

[67] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

rang  tunefully,  mingling  their  voices  with  the  happy 
shouts  of  boys  playing  football  in  a  field  below.  We 
walked  the  long  avenue  by  the  Liz  and  watched  the 
life  about  the  fountains,  where  the  soldiers  teased 
the  pretty  girls,  but  helped  them,  nevertheless,  to 
place  the  heavy  earthen  jars  upon  their  shapely 
heads.  Then,  finally,  we  made  another  early  start 
for  our  drive  to  Thomar,  third  poem  of  the  trilogy, 
third  panel  of  the  triptych. 


[68] 


Ill 

THOMAR 

THESE  drives  in  central  Portugal  are  truly  de- 
lightful. The  little  open  carriage,  the  horses* 
steady  pace,  the  soft  fragrance  of  the  air, 
the  ever-changing  and  ever-pleasant  pictures  along 
the  way,  make  an  ideal  mode  of  travel,  far  from  the 
noisy  railway  and  the  dust  of  automobiles.  The 
scenery  is  not  spectacular  in  any  way — just  lovely 
country,  peaceful  and  idyllic.  Rows  of  oaks  and 
eucalypti  ranged  against  the  sky,  cork-trees  by  the 
roadside,  vineyards  perched  on  rocky  terraces,  vales 
of  olive  groves,  and,  most  of  all,  pine  woods,  sun- 
drenched and  balsamic,  on  the  risings — such  are  the 
features  of  the  landscape.  Villages  seem  few  for 
populous  Europe,  but  the  farms,  when  you  come 
upon  them,  are  homelike,  freshly  painted,  and  clean. 
For  some  hours  we  drove  along,  crossing  many 
steep  ridges  until,  toward  noon,  Ourem's  Castle 
came  in  sight,  perched  high  on  a  fat,  round  hill. 
This  we  skirted,  through  vineyards  and  olive  or- 

[69] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

chards,  until  we  entered  the  long  street  of  a  town. 
Villa  Nova  d'Ourem,  where  we  drew  up  before  a 
very  modest  hospedaria.  Notwithstanding  its  hum- 
ble appearance,  we  found  a  neat,  cool  room  up-stairs 
and  had  a  good,  plain  luncheon. 

As  soon  as  the  noonday  glare  had  somewhat 
subsided  we  were  off  again  for  another  two  hours. 
Then,  at  a  turning,  Thomar's  church  and  castle  sud- 
denly rose  before  us.  It  seemed  too  late  to  climb 
the  hill  that  evening,  so  we  loitered  instead  in  the 
fragrant  gardens  that  skirt  the  Nabao,  a  little  stream 
that  seems  to  run  right  through  these  pleasure- 
grounds,  feeding  numerous  picturesque  wheels  that 
dip  its  water  into  sluices  and  carry  it  off  to  the 
thirsty  fields. 

WTien,  next  morning,  we  did  ascend  to  the  castle, 
we  found  it  a  fine  old  ruin  that  overlooks  a  vast 
expanse  of  country.  From  its  battlements  you  may 
follow  the  course  of  one  river  after  another — the 
Nabao,  the  Zezere,  the  Isna — as  they  wind  through 
orchard  and  vineyard  to  their  junction  with  the 
mighty  Tagus. 

The  merlons  of  its  ramparts,  pierced  with  loop- 
holes in  the  shape  of  a  cross  standing  on  a  circle, 

[70] 


i^,-»'A-V 


Jit 

.* 


Church  of  the  Templars,  Thomar 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

show  that  it  was  built  for  the  Templars,  this  being 
their  emblem — the  cross  upon  the  earth.  Their  day 
passed,  the  infidel  was  driven  from  the  country  for- 
ever, and,  relieved  of  the  nightmare  of  the  Moor's 
return,  a  new  brotherhood  arose  and  installed  itself 
in  the  castle — the  Order  of  Christ.  Headed  by  its 
grand  master,  Henry  the  Navigator,  its  members 
put  all  their  strength  to  new  endeavor  and  dreamed 
their  dreams  of  conquest  and  exploration,  unveiling 
one  by  one  the  secrets  of  the  ocean,  finding  the 
water  routes  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth, 
adding  far  countries  to  the  crown  of  their  sover- 
eign. 

The  church  that  adjoins  the  castle  reflects  both 
these  periods.  Its  earlier  portions,  rugged  and  bat- 
tlemented,  built  like  a  fortress,  an  outpost  fronting 
the  enemy,  suggest  the  warlike  spirit  of  the  Tem- 
plars. Its  later  portions  voice  the  dreams  of  the 
Knights  of  Christ,  and  remain  perhaps  the  supreme 
record  of  the  most  heroic  and  patriotic  period  of 
Portugal's  history,  when  these  knights  constituted 
the  vanguard  of  their  country's  civilization,  supply- 
ing the  wealth  to  back  Prince  Henry's  enterprises 
and  send  one  expedition  after  another  over  the  seas, 

[72] 


PORTUGAL'S  BATTLE  ABBEYS 

the  sails  of  the  caravels  emblazoned  with  the  special 
cross  that  was  the  sign  of  their  order. 

Each  stone  of  the  church  speaks  of  some  feat  of 
these  navigators;  every  detail  of  its  ornament  chants 
a  song  of  the  sea  and  the  whole  edifice  is  a  poem  of 
patriotism  written  in  stone  by  its  genial  architect, 
Joao  de  Castilho. 

To  read  its  story  you  must  forget  cold  architec- 
tural measurements  and  look  at  the  church  as  a  vast 
fabric  of  symbols.  Then,  upon  its  buttresses,  you 
will  discern  the  corals  and  pearls  of  the  tropic  seas; 
upon  its  string-courses  you  will  find  ropes  twisted 
through  cork  floats;  in  the  reveals  of  its  rose  win- 
dow the  sails  of  the  caravels  belly  in  the  wind,  re- 
strained by  taut  cordage  and,  capping  its  battle- 
ments, pierced  by  a  frieze  of  armillary  spheres, 
emblems  of  hope  and  of  the  king,  the  crosses  of 
the  Order  of  Christ  form  the  cresting  against  the  sky. 

The  extravagant  climax  is  reached  in  the  chapter- 
house window,  a  fantasy  in  limestone,  a  bit  of  sub- 
marine architecture  worthy  to  grace  a  palace  of  the 
Nereids  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea :  corals  and  sea-kelp, 
moving  wave  forms,  bits  of  anchors  and  broken 
chains,  shells  and  anemones,  conches  and  cockles 

[73] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

blended  together  in  a  strange  medley  of  forms  too 
intricate  to  describe  and  too  delicate  to  draw  that 
contrast  beautifully  with  the  vast  plain  surfaces  that 
surround  them. 

The  main  entrance  to  the  church  is  much  more 
restrained  and  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  door- 
way in  the  country,  reminding  one  of  the  same  archi- 
tect's design  at  Belem,  but  finer  both  in  conception 
and  execution.  The  interior  befits  the  meeting-place 
for  holy  knights,  recalling  some  temple  of  the  Grail. 
The  knights  worshipped  in  the  coro  alto  to  which  a 
staircase  ascends  from  the  great  cloister,  and  one 
can  readily  picture  the  chevaliers,  two  and  two, 
mounting  its  narrow  steps  in  dignified  procession. 

The  cloisters  are  of  vast  extent,  but,  owing  to  their 
late  date,  offer  little  of  artistic  interest,  except  per- 
haps the  little  cemetery  courtyard,  gay  with  flowers 
and  Moorish  tiles.  From  one  of  the  large  cloisters 
you  step  out  upon  a  terrace  overlooking  a  lovely 
vale.  The  convent  wall  edges  the  hill  beyond,  and 
all  between  stretch  the  gardens  of  the  knights — bou- 
quets of  stately  pines  and  rich  masses  of  foliage — 
while  in  the  quinta  nearer  the  monastery,  now  the 
property  of  the  Count  of  Thomar,  oleanders,  oranges, 

[74] 


Church  of  the  Knights  of  the  Order  of  Christ,  Thomar 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

and  loquats  bloom  amid  masses  of  handsome  flowers. 
Thomar  is  the  swan-song  of  the  Portuguese  build- 
ers— the  last  outpouring  of  their  soul,  the  final  burst 
of  glory  before  misfortune  overtook  their  country 
and  a  Spanish  Philip  built  the  cold  Palladian  cloister 
that  proclaims  the  death  of  the  country's  greatest 
hopes. 


[76] 


i 


IV 
TWO  EDENS  OF  ESTRAMADURA 


1 


TWO  EDENS  OF  ESTRAMADURA 


COIMBRA 

FROM  Thomar,  you  drive  four  miles  to  the  rail- 
way station,  and  then  only  an  hour  or  two 
in  the  train  brings  you  to  Coimbra,  which  city 
is  to  Portugal  what  Salamanca  is  to  Spain  or  Oxford 
or  Cambridge  to  England — for  many  centuries  the 
seat  of  its  great  university. 

So,  naturally,  one's  first  steps  are  bent  up  the 
steep  streets  of  the  walled  city  to  the  place  where 
the  university  sits  enthroned  upon  the  topmost  sum- 
mit. Its  extensive  buildings,  of  no  particular  aes- 
thetic interest,  surround  a  beautiful  quadrangle 
adorned  w4th  trees  and  shrubs.  At  its  southwestern 
angle  is  a  little  terrace,  a  shady  spot  and  a  favorite 
corner  with  the  students.  And  who  can  wonder? 
Hung  high  above  the  city  you  look  down  upon  its 
old  roofs  and  upon  a  great  bow  of  the  ^londego, 
*' river  of  the  muses,"  flowing  through  the  loveliest 

[79] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

valley  imaginable.  Soft  hills  embowered  in  groves 
and  greenwoods  encompass  it — range  after  range  of 
varied  silhouettes,  fainter  and  more  misty  in  the 
moist  air  as  they  recede,  until  they  help  to  buttress 
the  slopes  of  the  Estrella,  the  mountains  of  the  stars, 
that  rear  their  purple  silhouettes  against  the  sky. 

Boats  with  tall  white  sails  work  their  way  through 
the  sand-bars  toward  the  sea.  A  delightful  peace 
pervades  the  scene  and  stirs  to  meditation.  The 
students  read  or  study  on  the  benches  in  this  angle 
and  once  in  a  while  raise  their  eyes  and  look  toward 
the  distant  mountains. 

They  are  a  fine-looking  lot,  these  students — most 
of  them  tall  and  well  set  up,  and  many,  especially 
those  from  north  Portugal,  surprisingly  blond.  They 
all  wear  the  same  costume,  a  long  black  frock  coat 
that  buttons  to  the  neck  and  gives  them  an  ecclesi- 
astical air,  and  a  wide,  capelike  cloak,  also  black, 
that  they  drape  picturesquely  over  their  arm  or 
throw  over  their  shoulders,  according  to  the  weather. 
This  official  garb  was  once  supplemented  by  a  black 
knitted  cap  which  they  did  not  like,  so  all  now  go 
bareheaded.  They  carry  their  papers  and  books  in 
portfolios,  from  which  hang  knots  of  long  ribbons, 

[80] 


J 


<ss~ 


a  ,1;     ,^. 

if  ':^ 


■||ii,;V,  A»---->;- 


.<► 


s 


••a 

a 


4 


S 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

whose  colors  denote  the  courses  they  are  following 
— law,  medicine,  and  the  like. 

Once  the  capital  of  the  kingdom,  Coimbra  pos- 
sesses a  number  of  interesting  monuments.  Its  cathe- 
dral dates  from  the  early  period  when  Coimbra  upon 
the  west,  Toledo  in  the  centre,  and  Saragossa  to  the 
east  were  the  Christian  outposts  against  the  infidel. 
Its  color,  a  deep  golden  brown,  is  like  that  of  an  old 
warrior  tanned  by  the  wars.  Squarely  seated  upon 
its  platform,  its  walls  pierced  only  by  narrow  win- 
dows that  resemble  loopholes,  its  roofs  and  parapets 
embattled,  it  recalls  the  day  when  praying  and  fight- 
ing went  hand  in  hand,  and  its  rough-hewn  stones 
sheathe  it  as  in  a  bronze  cuirass  chased  with  the 
delicate  tracery  of  its  south  door  added  at  a  later 
epoch. 

Its  interior,  too,  is  severely  plain,  though  adorned 
with  the  only  fine  reredos  that  I  saw  in  Portugal, 
and  with  side  chapels  that  contain  a  notable  array 
of  old  blue  tiles. 

In  the  convent  church  of  Santa  Cruz,  Alfonso 
Henriques,  first  king  of  Portugal,  and  his  son  Sancho 
lie  buried  in  handsome  tombs  at  each  side  of  the 
high  altar.     But  the  chief  treasures  of  this  church 

[82] 


^-;v,,  s  :.;;:r;;;:  Vf':--i:;     |y|ili 


.■;i.  J 


/Irco  de  Almedina,  Coimhra 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

are  the  stalls  of  the  upper  choir  that  date  from  the 
same  period  as  the  later  portion  of  Thomar  and 
have  the  same  imaginative  appeal,  with  their  carved 
caravels  cutting  the  waves  to  visions  of  far-off  cities 
of  Coromandel  and  Calicut  and  the  jungles  of  Brazil. 
I  passed  a  morning  sketching  in  this  coro  alto,  and, 
as  I  worked,  the  priests'  voices  and  the  shuffle  of 
many  feet  rose  in  a  confused  murmur  to  my  ears, 
mingling  pleasantly  with  the  wheezy  notes  of  the 
organ  and  the  many -toned  bells  in  the  tower  above, 
so  that,  what  with  my  work,  I  forgot  the  hour,  and 
when  it  was  time  to  go  the  sacristan  and  all  had 
departed.  It  was  only  after  half  an  hour  of  diligent 
searching  that  I  was  able  at  last  to  gain  a  cloister 
through  the  sacristy  door  and  find  some  one  to  let 
me  out. 

We  spent  some  charming  days  in  Coimbra.  We 
wandered  in  the  thoroughfares  of  the  upper  town, 
admiring  the  picturesque  corners,  the  old  city  gates, 
and  the  great  palaces  with  their  complicated  escutch- 
eons. We  lingered  upon  the  broad  terraces  of  the 
botanical  gardens,  whose  flora  is,  perhaps,  as  varied 
as  any  in  existence.  We  wandered  in  the  avenue 
that  skirts  the  river. 

[84] 


C/w/r  Stalls  in  the  Church  of  Santa  Cruz,  Coimhra 


TWO  EDENS  OF  ESTHAAMDURA 

And  one  morning  we  crossed  the  Mondego  to  visit 
the  Quinta  das  Lagrimas,  the  Garden  of  Tears,  and 
evoke  sad  memories  of  Inez  de  Castro,  whose  story, 
as  I  have  already  said,  Camoens  has  woven  into 
one  of  the  most  touching  episodes  of  his  immortal 
Lusiads.  From  the  sunHt  road  you  enter  a  park, 
almost  wild,  with  thickets  of  bamboo,  araucanias, 
and  flowers  in  profusion,  and  find,  perhaps,  an  old 
gardener  silently  working  in  a  vegetable-patch.  Then 
you  pass  a  Gothic  ruin  with  an  ivy-grown  portal 
and  come  upon  a  square  pool  of  water  deeply  shaded 
by  giant  cedars  and  sycamores. 

Into  one  of  its  corners  a  tiny  stream  issues  from  a 
fissure  in  the  rock,  and  the  faint  murmur  of  its 
water  is  the  only  audible  sound.  But  the  immor- 
tal lines  of  Camoens,  chiselled  upon  a  stone  near  by, 
make  the  place  eloquent  of  the  death  of  gentle  Inez: 

"Vede  que  fresca  fonte  rega  as  flores, 
Que  lagrimas  sao  a  agua,  e  o  nome  amores."* 

The  murder  was  committed  beside  the  fountain 
and  that  is  why  the  Quinta  is  called  the  Garden  of 
Tears. 

*"See  yon  fresh  fountain  flowing  mid  the  flowers. 
Tears  are  its  water  and  its  name  'Amores.'" 

— Burton's  Translalion. 

[85] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

On  a  Sunday  afternoon  we  took  tea  with  some 
friends  in  their  home  overlooking  a  panorama  of 
the  river  valley  and  its  many  hills.  For  our  benefit 
they  had  assembled  upon  the  table  all  the  dainties 
of  the  Portuguese  pastry-cook:  ovos  molles,  quejadaSy 
or  cheese  cakes,  from  Cintra,  crystallized  cabago,  and 
even  the  bolo  de  mel,  or  honey-cake,  from  Madeira. 

After  tea  they  asked  in  a  group  of  students — our 
host  was  taking  his  last  year  in  the  law  school — who, 
with  their  beloved  guitarras  and  violas,  in  the  dark- 
ened room,  sang  their  romances,  their  fardos  and 
languishing  love-songs,  for  here  in  Coimbra  the  ser- 
enades form  an  integral  part  of  the  college  life. 

I  should  say  the  students  frequent  the  cafes  but 
little  and  the  book-shops  much,  especially  a  hand- 
some one  down  by  the  river,  provided  like  a  library 
with  comfortable  seats  and  tables  strewn  with  jour- 
nals. They  are  great  practical  jokers,  and  their 
farces  form  their  principal  diversion. 

Upon  our  last  afternoon  we  walked  once  more  to 
the  cathedral  and  watched  the  sun  gild  the  ruddy 
fagade  with  its  last  dying  rays.  Then  down  to  the 
river  and  to  our  hotel.  At  midnight  we  were  awak- 
ened by  the  sound  of  music — guitar  and  viola  and 

[86] 


s 

o 


a 
CO 

to 


s 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

a  sweet  voice  singing — and  we  recognized  in  the  still 
night  the  voices  of  the  other  afternoon,  first  a  light 
tenor,  then  a  deeper  barytone.  What  a  fitting  end- 
ing to  this  pleasant  journey;  what  a  happy  climax 
to  our  stay  in  Coimbra,  city  of  the  muses ! 


[88] 


n 

BUSSACO 

THE  horses  had  just  pulled  up  a  long  grade 
when,  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  our  coachman, 
with  a  flourish  of  his  whip,  pointed  out  a 
white  speck  upon  a  distant  mountain,  bare  and 
precipitous,  and  he  said:    "There's  Bussaco." 

We  plodded  on  for  an  hour  or  more,  and  at  last 
began  to  climb  in  earnest  until  we  reached  a  village, 
Luzo,  sunning  its  pink  roofs  among  the  vineyards. 
Then  we  skirted  a  high  wall  and  suddenly  plunged 
through  a  gateway  into  another  world.  Houses, 
vineyards,  the  smiling  peasants,  even  the  bright  hot 
sunlight  of  the  summer  afternoon — all  were  blotted 
out  in  the  instant. 

About  us,  interlocking  their  dense  rank  branches 
above  our  heads,  great  trees  of  infinite  variety  inter- 
twined to  form  a  forest  as  dense  and  luxuriant  as 
any  tropic  jungle,  where,  in  their  efforts  to  reach  the 
life-giving  sun,  the  tree-trunks  spindled  upward  tall 
and  straight,  their  lower  limbs  dying  in  the  gloom  be- 
neath.   The  road  wound  cool  and  fragrant  between 

[89] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

hedges  of  ivy  and  laurel,  mounting  ever  higher  and 
higher  until  we  spied  a  slender  shaft  above  our  heads 
surmounted  by  an  armillary  sphere.  Some  out- 
buildings, a  terrace,  and  a  broad  sunny  esplanade, 
and,  blinking  in  the  bright  light  once  more,  we  drew 
up  before  a  monumental  hotel,  an  enchanted  palace 
in  the  wood ! 

Somewhere  back  in  the  dark  ages  when  good  men 
fled  the  turmoil  of  eternal  wars,  hermit  monks  found 
this  quiet  retreat  and  built  here  a  primitive  con- 
vent. It  never  grew  rich  in  worldly  goods,  nor  did 
its  barefoot  brothers  live  in  the  opulence  that  was 
the  shame  of  other  Portuguese  convents.  On  the 
contrary,  their  only  luxury  was  this  forest.  As  their 
missionary  brothers  one  by  one  went  forth  over- 
seas to  convert  the  heathen  of  Asia  and  America, 
their  home  convent  perched  high  up  on  its  mountain 
top  was  ever  present  in  their  memories,  and  they 
sent  or  brought  back  to  it  every  strange  plant  and 
tree  that  they  could  find  which,  in  this  marvellous 
climate,  where  everything  grows,  thrived  and  multi- 
plied. A  papal  bull,  issued  by  Urban  VIII,  and  still 
to  be  read,  inscribed  upon  the  Portas  de  Coimbra, 
punished  with  major  excommunication  any  one  who 

[90] 


TWO  EDENS  OF  ESTRAMADURA 

dared  cut  a  tree  in  this  hosque  sagrado,  so  that  its 
trees  have  grown  in  peace  and  form  to-day  a  virgin 
forest  centuries  old  and  many  miles  in  circumference. 

The  variety  of  its  growth  is  astounding.  Pines, 
oaks,  and  chestnuts  indigenous  to  northern  woods 
neighbor  exotic  palms,  camphor-trees,  carobs,  Lusi- 
tanian  cypresses  and  the  giant  cedars  of  Lebanon 
and  Hindustan,  forming  dense  groves  where  the 
sunlight  only  filters  at  midday,  blazing  in  tiny  bril- 
liant spots  upon  the  ivy,  smilax  and  mosses  that 
clothe  the  tree  trunks  and  spread  their  carpets  upon 
the  ground. 

Sunlight  is  indeed  necessary  to  the  enjoyment  of 
these  w^oods,  and  I  can  readily  imagine  the  dis- 
appointment of  any  one  who  only  sees  them  in  the 
rain,  smothered  as  they  then  are  in  the  clouds  of 
moisture  that,  in  these  latitudes,  settle  round  the 
mountain  tops.  We  were  fortunate  in  our  sojourn, 
for  every  day  we  were  able  to  walk  in  a  different 
direction  through  these  amazing  forests — a  delight, 
a  continual  surprise,  an  everlasting  wonderment  at 
the  prodigal  hand  of  nature.  Fountains,  pools,  cas- 
cades greet  one  at  each  turn,  and  their  murmur 
forms  a  rippling  accompaniment  to  the  songs  of  the 

[91] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

birds,  and  to  the  gentle  refrain  of  the  trees  that 
hum  in  the  breeze  Uke  the  after-sweep  of  harp-strings. 
Every  puff  of  wind  and  zephyr  brings  its  scent  and 
makes  you  glad  indeed,  if,  in  this  material  twentieth 
century,  you  still  have  a  pagan  sense  left. 

The  walk  we  liked  best  led  up  a  zigzag  path  that 
steeply  mounts  behind  the  hotel.  It  was  the  old 
calvary,  and  at  each  of  its  turnings  a  square  chapel 
still  stands,  mouldy  and  moss-grown  and  decorated 
with  stone  mosaics  by  the  patient  silent  monks. 
Though  shorn  of  their  sculptures,  these  stations  of 
the  cross  still  show  vestiges  of  their  old  painted  back- 
grounds. They  lead  you  at  length  through  ivy- 
covered  copses  and  dense  thickets  of  laurestina  to 
two  old  hermitages,  perched  one  above  the  other. 

These  also  were  fashioned  by  the  monks,  and 
each  contains  a  tiny  oratory,  a  sleeping  chamber 
whose  hard  couch  is  still  marked  upon  the  stone 
floor,  a  rude  kitchen  and  a  storeroom  lined  with 
cork.  You  step  from  the  dense  woods  into  these 
anchoretic  retreats,  and  from  them  out  again  on  to 
a  little  terrace  where  you  pause  and  gasp,  bewil- 
dered, for  the  world  lies  spread  at  your  feet. 

Drunk  with  air  and  sunshine  after  the  darkness 

[92] 


(^^ 


/ 


The  Monastery  and  Palace,  Bus.saco 


TWO  EDENS  OF  ESTRAMADURA 

of  the  woods,  you  gaze  without  let  or  hinit,  over 
plains  drenched  and  flooded  with  blue,  where  green 
fields  and  pink-tiled  villages  sun  themselves  among 
darker  patterns  of  pine-woods.  Far  to  the  west- 
ward the  sand-bars  gleam  white  against  a  long  deep 
sapphire  line.  To  the  north  rise  the  Caramulla 
Mountains,  range  after  range,  one  behind  another, 
fading  away  to  far  cerulean  lands,  so  faint  that  one 
asks,  is  it  sky,  is  it  sea;  solid  earth  or  merely  a  pass- 
ing cloud.  I  infinitely  prefer  this  view  to  the  more 
extensive  one  gained  from  the  Cruz  Alta  above  at 
the  extreme  top  of  the  mountain — a  panorama  of 
vast  extent  indeed,  but  lacking  both  the  mystery 
and  charm  of  this  initial  glimpse  coming  like  a  vision 
upon  your  senses. 

Another  walk,  best  toward  evening,  brings  you 
to  the  Porta  de  Sulla  overlooking  the  battle-field — 
*'Bussaco's  iron  ridge" — where,  before  Wellington's 
forces,  Massena,  the  Darling  of  Victory,  first  tasted 
defeat.  And  indeed,  as  one  looks  from  this  gate, 
down  the  dizzy  declivities  up  which  the  French 
troops  toiled,  one  wonders  at  the  temerity  of  the 
commander  who  would  dare  send  his  men  to  storm 
so  formidable  a  position. 

[93] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

The  great  hotel  at  Bussaco  is,  I  confess,  somewhat 
out  of  the  picture — insolent,  in  the  over-elaboration 
of  its  architecture,  and  too  sharp  a  contrast  to  the 
humble  monastery  that  shelters  beneath  its  giant 
bulk.  But  it  is  veritably  a  lotus-eater's  paradise.  I 
can  imagine  no  lovelier  place  for  rest  and  quiet  recrea- 
tion than  this  palatial  caravansary  sheltered  in  its 
miles  of  woods.  It  is  kept  to  suit  the  most  fastidious 
taste,  and  I  am  convinced  that  were  it  upon  one  of 
the  beaten  roads  of  travel,  it  would  be  famous  the 
world  over. 

When  the  old  convent  was  secularized  some  years 
ago  the  Matta  of  Bussaco  was  taken  over  by  the 
state,  and  it  was  decided  to  erect  within  it  a  palace 
to  be  presented  to  the  crown.  The  palace  was  duly 
built,  but,  for  political  reasons,  was  never  offered  to 
the  King,  but  turned  instead  into  this  hotel,  a  spe- 
cial pavilion  being  reserved  for  the  use  of  the  royal 
family. 

In  striking  contrast  to  its  magnificence  is  the 
monastery  beside  it — a  true  abode  of  anchorites. 
No  spacious  corridors  here  as  at  Thomar;  no  vast 
kitchens  like  Alcobaca;  no  gorgeous  cloisters  as 
at  Belem.    All  is  meek  and  humble.    Along  the  nar- 

[94] 


TWO  EDENS  OF  ESTRAMADURA 

row  halls,  roofed  with  cork,  cork  doors  just  large 
enough  to  frame  a  human  form  admit  to  the  narrow 
cells.  At  each  angle  stands  an  altar  of  Talavera 
tiles,  blue  and  yellow  with  Persian-like  bird-panels 
on  a  pale  greenish  ground.  Half -effaced  portraits 
of  monks  and  abbots,  grim  and  ascetic,  and  a  few 
gruesome  religious  pictures,  form  the  sole  decoration 
of  the  walls. 

But  the  woods  all  about  are  enlivened  with  charm- 
ing features — some  recent,  others  dating  from  times 
long  ago:  crystal  fountains  gushing  from  fern-grown 
glens;  rock  grottoes,  dripping  with  veil-like  water- 
falls, in  whose  caverns  palms  and  rare  tropical  plants 
thrive  as  in  a  hothouse;  seats  of  stone  mosaic,  ivy- 
grown  ruins,  and  a  scala  santa  which  you  ascend  be- 
tween cascades  and  varied  cryptogamia. 

Bussaco's  beauty  bafl3es  both  pen  and  pencil,  for 
it  resides  chiefly  in  the  vast  extent  of  its  glorious 
woods,  and  how  picture  the  variety  of  these  stately 
avenues,  the  deep  of  the  cedar  groves,  and  the  thick, 
flat  canopies  of  its  cypresses  spread  like  green  velvet 
parasols  to  screen  the  sun? 


[95] 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND  ITS  ROMARIAS 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND   ITS 
ROMARIAS 

WE  left  this  Eden  one  afternoon,  as  the 
clouds  were  lowering  and  rain  threat- 
ened at  any  moment,  and,  as  we  coasted 
down  the  steep  decline  in  the  hotel's  motor,  our 
sadness  at  departure  was  somewhat  tempered  by 
the  thought  of  a  change  in  the  weather. 

And  surely  enough,  when  we  next  saw  the  great 
ridge  from  the  train  as  we  left  Pampilhosa,  the 
clouds  had  descended  about  it,  and  were  drifting 
thicker,  while  showers  from  time  to  time  obscured 
even  the  lower  spurs. 

The  country  that  we  traversed,  especially  upon 
such  a  day,  made  us  think  of  Holland.  It  was,  in- 
deed, the  direct  antithesis  to  that  we  had  just  left. 
Perfectly  flat  open  fields  separated  by  narrow  canals 
and  bordered  by  long  fringes  of  trees  alternated 
with  sand  dunes.  We  knew  the  sea  was  near  when, 
at  length,  we  approached  Aveiro,  whose  fishermen 

[99] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

and  their  varinas  are  famous  the  country  over,  and 
were  quite  prepared  to  perceive  the  broad  Atlantic 
just  beyond  the  town. 

The  leaden  clouds  had  lifted.  We  had  dropped  in 
but  an  hour  or  two  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea, 
in  whose  immensity  we  watched  the  sun  set  in  a 
halo  of  glory,  like  one  of  Claude's  great  golden  can- 
vases. 

The  villas  and  bathing  resorts  of  Granja,  suburban 
in  character,  told  us  we  were  nearing  an  important 
city,  and  presently,  just  before  entering  the  station 
at  Villa  Nova  de  Gaia,  we  caught  our  first  glimpse 
of  Oporto,  sitting  proudly  on  its  hills,  its  tiers  of  win- 
dows throwing  back  the  last  rays  of  the  sun.  As 
we  waited  the  dusk  darkened  into  night.  But  when 
we  did  finally  cross  high  above  the  Douro  upon  the 
airy  bridge  that  spans  its  deep  ravine,  profound  as 
at  Niagara,  the  picture  was  superb. 

Far  below  the  river  wound  in  a  silver  bow,  the 
boats  upon  it  mere  specks;  chains  and  festoons  of 
lights  revealed  the  city  silhouetted  against  a  steel- 
colored  sky,  and  followed  the  irregular  lines  of  the 
streets,  starring  them  like  the  firmament,  white 
above,  and  golden  far  down  by  the  water's  edge. 

[100] 


^^^ 


The  Gorge  of  the  Douro  at  Oporto 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND   ITS  ROMARIAS 

Slowly  we  crossed  the  dizzy  heights  and  ruinliled 
through  a  tunnel  and  into  the  station. 

We  slept  that  night  in  a  bit  of  France,  lost  in  this 
far  corner  of  Portugal.  Madame  at  the  desk,  mon- 
sieur in  the  dining-room;  the  food,  the  good  beds 
and  the  comfortably  furnished  room — all  recalled 
the  best  type  of  French  provincial  hotels. 

Oporto  has  been  surnamed  the  "Laborious,"  and 
I  think  it  deserves  the  appellation.  It  is  preemi- 
nently a  commercial  city,  so  its  main  arteries  teem 
with  life.  The  abrupt  slopes  that  rise  from  the 
river  bank  make  its  streets  exceptionally  steep  and 
irregular.  Yet  almost  all  the  burden  of  its  com- 
merce is  carried  in  odd  boat-shaped  baskets  upon 
the  heads  and  shoulders  of  its  citizens  who  plod  up 
and  down  the  hills  bearing  incredible  loads.  Horses 
are  few,  and  are  reserved  for  carriages  and  lighter 
vehicles. 

All  the  heavy  hauling  is  done  by  the  ox-teams  that 
are  the  most  distinctive  feature  of  its  thoroughfares. 
The  oxen,  of  a  big  strong  tj-pe,  have  an  enormous 
spread  of  horns.  The  carts  are  as  primitive  as  in 
the  day  of  Celt  or  Roman  and  the  yokes  are  unique. 
Four  or  five  feet  in  length,  they  stand  almost  up- 

[101] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

right  like  pictures  upon  easels,  carved  with  intricate 
pierced  patterns  sometimes  suggesting  Moorish  de- 
signs, sometimes  enriched  with  saints  and  angels, 

'r 


An  Ox-Team,  Oporto 

and  often  painted  in  the  same  gay  colors  as  the  carts 
in  Palermo.  The  master  of  the  team  walks  behind 
it,  or  sits  upon  the  load,  while  the  big  patient  animals 
are  led  by  a  boy  or  girl  who  precedes  them  armed 
with  a  goad.     The  sight  of  the  girls  especially — 

[  102  ] 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND  ITS  ROMARLAS 

mere  slips  of  creatures  of  the  tender  age  that  most 
needs  protection — walking  barefoot  in  the  dirty 
streets,  tugging  and  hauling  at  the  great  beasts 
whose  horns  often  graze  their  slender  bodies,  stirs 
the  stranger's  heart  to  pity. 

The  life  of  the  common  people  centres  in  the 
Praga  de  Ribeira,  an  irregular  little  square,  foul  and 
dust-swept,  down  by  the  river  front.  Here  ox- teams 
and  longshoremen  come  in  contact  and  take  up  their 
burdens.  Here  one  may  best  study  the  strange  rigs 
of  the  boats — the  picturesque  hulls  of  the  barcos  de 
tolde  shaped  like  gondolas,  the  flat-bottomed  punts, 
and,  most  characteristic  of  all,  the  high-pooped  bar- 
cos  rabello,  the  great  boats  that  bring  their  precious 
cargoes  of  port  wine  through  shoals  and  sand-bars, 
dow^n  the  turbid  Douro  to  the  warehouses  of  Oporto. 

Colliers  from  England,  coasting-ships  from  Bor- 
deaux and  Galicia,  and  native  vessels  from  the 
Azores,  complete  the  background.  The  larger  liners 
no  longer  pass  the  treacherous  bar,  but  anchor  in- 
stead in  the  new  artificial  harbor  at  Leixoes  a  few 
miles  away. 

The  broad  quay  that  skirts  the  river  reflects  this 
cosmopolitan    life    and    recalls    picturesque    Santa 

[103] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Lucia  in  the  heyday  of  its  squalor  and  activity.  The 
city  wall  that  borders  it  is  honeycombed  with  the 
troglodytic  shops  of  ship  chandlers,  sailors*  retreats 


A  Wine-Boat  on  the  Douro 


and  evil-smelling  barrooms;  the  houses  that  over- 
look it  flaunt  drying  linen  and  pots  of  gaudy  flowers 
to  the  sun;  the  motley  throng  that  crowd  its  gran- 
ite quay  are  sturdy  seafolks  bronzed  and  weathered 
by  wind  and  sun.     The  houses  rise  abruptly,  one 

[104] 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND   ITS   ROMARIAS 

above  another,  topped  at  last  by  the  huge  bulk  of 
the  bishop's  pahice,  rising  at  the  end  of  the  airy 
bridge,  the  Ponte  de  Don  Luiz  Primeiro,  that  leaps 
the  Douro  from  bank  to  bank  on  the  daring  sweep 
of  its  single  skeleton  arch. 

The  streets  that  lead  from  the  quay  to  the  upper 
town  are  quite  mediaeval  in  character — dark  tor- 
tuous lanes  overshadowed  by  tall  houses  and  further 
shaded  by  projecting  balconies.  In  their  open  shops 
cobblers  and  carpenters,  saddlers  and  bookbinders, 
ply  their  trades,  using  tools  and  implements  of  cen- 
turies ago.  I  especially  remember  one  dark  lane 
filled  with  smithies,  in  which  was  such  a  din  of  ham- 
mers beating  on  brass,  copper  and  zinc,  reverberat- 
ing, thrown  back  and  forth  from  wall  to  wall,  that 
my  senses  were  bewildered.  Yet  children  played 
peacefully  in  the  gutters,  while  housewives  hung 
out  their  linen  on  the  balconies  overhead  quite  ob- 
livious and  seemingly  content. 

The  most  unusual  of  these  streets  is  the  Rua  das 
Flores,  where  the  goldsmiths  and  silversmiths  dis- 
play their  extraordinary  wares — glittering  cases  of 
jewelry  for  the  rich  peasants  of  the  Minho,  made  for 
the  most  part  in  the  village  of  Gondomar.    Crucifixes 

[105] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

of  elaborate  filigree;  great  earrings,  eight  to  nine 
inches  long;  massive  pectoral  hearts  engrossed  with 
leaves  and  tendrils  set  with  precious  stones  that 
stand  almost  free  from  the  golden  background ;  mas- 
sive chains  and  lockets;  English  sovereigns  and  gold 
pistoles  and  doubloons  set  as  watch  charms  form  the 
most  amazing  exhibition  of  peasant  jewels  that  I 
have  ever  seen. 

In  other  streets  near  by  the  country  folk  buy  their 
costumes,  and  the  shop  fronts  are  gay  with  colored 
sashes  for  the  men,  and  with  bright  kerchiefs  and 
petticoats  for  the  women.  As  most  of  these  are 
illiterate,  quaint  picture-signs  dangle  in  the  air, 
designating  the  shop  whose  name  would  otherwise 
be  illegible. 

The  streets  of  the  upper  town  are  cleaner  and 
more  modern  in  appearance,  and  meet  here  and 
there  in  spacious  squares  laid  out  with  beautiful 
gardens.  But  one  finds  walking  or  driving  in  them 
rather  fatiguing,  for  all  the  pavements  are  of  granite. 
In  fact.  Oporto  is  a  city  of  granite.  Every  church 
and  palace,  all  its  embankments,  even  the  door  and 
window-frames  of  its  humblest  houses  are  made  of 
this  enduring  stone,  whose  stubbornness  of  surface 

[106] 


H    •/ 


V 


'^^S^^-^^^:-^ 


IV  . 


The  Cathedral,  Oporto 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

has  restrained  the  use  of  ornament,  so  that  the  city's 
architecture  in  the  main  is  dignified  and  simple. 

This  is  the  note  of  its  principal  monument.  The 
cathedral,  though  disfigured  by  late  alterations,  is 
a  grave,  austere  pile,  like  most  of  the  very  early 
churches  of  this  northern  country,  and  so  is  the 
huge  bishop's  palace  that  adjoins  it.  This  latter 
is  now  unoccupied,  so  the  monumental  staircase  of 
noble  design,  but  tawdry  decoration,  echoes  no  foot- 
step; the  long  suites  of  chambers  are  denuded,  and 
the  private  chapel  despoiled.  As  we  walked  through 
these  empty  rooms,  one  after  another,  our  soldier 
guide  opening  each  door  with  a  key,  we  came  at 
length  to  one  in  which  a  gorgeous  cardinal's  robe, 
ermine-trimmed,  hung  sunning  over  a  chair  by  the 
window,  mute  evocation  of  the  holy  man  who  used 
to  sit  there  and  gaze  hence  over  vine-clad  pergolas 
and  pottery  roofs,  plunging  one  below  the  other  to 
the  crowded  shipping  of  the  quays  below. 

These  views  of  Oporto  from  the  heights  are  highly 
picturesque,  and  one  may  enjoy  them  from  several 
points  of  vantage.  From  the  Passeio  das  Fontain- 
has,  for  instance,  you  stand  between  the  two  bridges, 
that  of  the  railway  and  the  foot-bridge,  both  remark- 

[108] 


NORTH   PORTUGAL  AND   ITS   ROMARIAS 

able  feats  of  engineering.  Upon  the  opposite  shore 
rises  the  conspicuous  church  of  the  Serra  do  Pilar, 
whence  WelHngton  directed  his  famous  crossing  of 
the  Douro,  and  from  which  his  cannon  })omljardcd 
the  city.  But  the  view  from  the  far  end  of  the 
Ponte  de  Dom  Luiz  is,  I  think,  the  best.  Here  you 
face  the  city  that  rises  like  a  wall  from  the  water's 
edge.  At  the  bottom  are  the  granite  quays  I  have 
described,  alive  with  moving  crowds,  the  light-col- 
ored waists  and  bundles  of  the  women  splashing 
white  spots  against  the  dark-gray  stone.  Skiffs 
crowd  about  the  landing-steps;  the  tall  white  sails 
of  the  wine-boats  go  floating  by  like  stately  swans; 
sombre  groups  of  coal-barges  clustered  about  the 
custom-house  form  intricate  patterns  upon  the 
yellow-green  water,  and  now  and  then  a  steamer  or 
a  tug  comes  slowly  up  the  deep  gorge  from  the  sea. 
Tiny  wherries,  rowed  by  men  standing  upright,  dart 
from  shore  to  shore  bearing  business  men  back  and 
forth  to  the  warehouses  that  stretch  in  long  lines 
along  the  south  bank,  where  the  wealth  of  the  coun- 
try and  the  mainspring  of  its  activities — those  rare 
old  port  wines,  the  precious  Muscatel  de  Jesus,  the 
rich  white  Malmsey,  the  sweet  Bastardo  and  all  the 

[109] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

sorts  and  varieties  of  Tintas — lie  mellowing  and 
ripening. 

North  of  the  Douro  lies  a  ricli  province  of  vine- 
yards— a  land  where  the  peasants  are  self-respecting, 
happy,  frugal,  and  often  wealthy;  where  the  granite 
terraces  have  stood  for  centuries;  where  the  forms 
of  the  old  ox-cartsf  have  never  changed;  where  the 
husbandmen  use  the  same  ploughs  and  farm  im- 
plements that  one  sees  graven  upon  the  Celtic  stones 
of  Citania. 

To  visit  this  country  we  set  out  by  train  one 
morning  for  Guimaraes.  The  road  from  Oporto  lies 
through  a  smiling  land  where  every  house  is  smoth- 
ered in  grape-vines,  where  the  little  Leca,  sung  by 
Sa  de  Miranda,  flows  gurgling  through  a  narrow  val- 
ley, setting  in  motion  numerous  water-wheels,  div- 
ing under  ivy-grown  bridges,  and  polishing  great 
granite  boulders  that  shine  resplendent  in  the  sun. 

Finally,  Guimaraes  appears  lying  amid  its  vine- 
yards and  still  guarded  by  its  ancient  castle,  the 
cradle  of  the  Portuguese  monarchy.  The  city  has 
a  fine  old  aristocratic  air— that  of  an  impoverished 
nobleman — with  its  stately  palaces  flaunting  their 

[110] 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND   ITS  ROMARIAS 

many  quarterings  on  escutcheons  uIm^vc  their  en- 
trances; its  substantial  houses  and  its  venerable 
paving-stones  now  worn  rutty  by  hundreds  of  years 
of  footsteps. 


The  Town  Uall,  Guimardes 

Upon  a  picturesque  square,  arcaded  and  irregular 
in  shape,  front  the  main  church  and  the  old  Town 
Hall,  a  curious  edifice  that  straddles  the  j)raQa  on  a 
series  of  stumpy  arches.     The  bad  taste  of  a  later 

[111] 


THROUGH   SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

generation  has  remodelled  its  upper  story  and  decked 
it  with  Manueline  spheres  and  with  a  strange  knight 
in  nondescript  armor,  a  burlesque  figure  fit  to  grace 
a  Louis  XIV  ballet. 

The  Church  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Olives  is  a  grave 
and  sombre  pile,  dating  from  the  first  period  of  the 
country's  history.  In  its  granite  cloister  grows  an 
olive-tree  that  recalls  the  story  from  which  the  old 
church  takes  its  name — a  tradition  of  the  time  of 
the  Visigoths.  Wamba  was  ploughing  his  fields 
when  envoys  from  Toledo  came  to  tell  him  that  he 
had  been  elected  king  of  the  Gothic  peoples.  In- 
credulous, he  cried  in  jest  that  he  would  be  king 
when  his  goad  blossomed  into  leaf.  So  saying,  he 
thrust  his  long  olive  staff  into  the  ground,  when  lo, 
leaves  burst  from  it;  amazed,  he  attempted  to 
pull  it  from  the  earth,  but  found  it  firmly  rooted. 
Wamba  was  king ! 

From  this  church  a  long  winding  street,  spanned 
here  and  there  with  arches,  and  lined  with  ancient 
habitations,  mounts  gradually  to  the  Castle.  This  I 
have  called  the  cradle  of  the  Portuguese  monarchy, 
for  here  Affonso  Henriques  was  born,  and  here  he 
was  baptized  in  a  little  chapel  still  standing,  that 
once  was  enclosed  within  the  outer  walls. 

[112] 


NORTH   PORTUGAL  AND   ITS   ROMARIAS 

The  old  fortress  remains  quite  inUict,  o\vin<^  to  its 
solid  construction,  for  it  is  built  of  well-fitted  blocks 
of  granite  exceptionally  large  for  a  building  of  its 
date.  You  may  still  walk  its  entire  chemin  dcs 
rondeSy  whose  battlements  and  stairways,  towers 
and  bastions,  and  even  the  curious  pyramidal  mer- 
lons, a  legacy  of  the  Moors,  are  still  in  place.  Tlie 
view  from  the  ramparts  is  charming:  sanctuaries 
on  the  surrounding  hills,  the  green  valley,  the  old 
town,  the  fields  through  which  we  w^ere  to  drive  on 
the  morrow,  veiled  by  their  screens  of  vines,  com- 
bining to  make  a  lovely  panorama. 

I  awoke  early  next  morning  to  the  sound  of  bells 
— chimes  merry  and  gay,  jingling  tunes  knocked  out 
with  a  hammer  on  sweet-toned  bells,  and  as  I  looked 
out  of  the  window  the  black-robed  women  were 
going  to  mass  (for  it  was  a  festival  day),  some  afoot 
and  one  or  two  in  old-fashioned  landaus  that  accorded 
w^ell  with  the  time-worn  palace  fronts.  But  before 
the  hotel  a  carriage  was  waiting  for  us,  and  while 
the  air  was  still  fresh  and  crisp  w^e  set  forth  for 
Braga. 

The  road  lay  through  a  land  of  vineyards,  not  the 
close-cropped  vineyards  that  we  know,  but  screens 
of  vines  that  gaily  mount  aloft  on  oaks,  poplars,  and 

[113] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

cherry-trees — uveiras,  the  Minhotos  call  them — 
twenty  or  thirty  feet  in  air,  sunning  themselves  as 
they  did  in  the  days  of  ancient  Rome — ulmisque 
adjungere  vites.  So  they  grow  in  the  fields,  but  in 
the  villages  they  are  cultivated  de  ramaday  trellised 
over  tall  stone-posts  or  trained  on  pergolas  and  ar- 
bors that  span  the  narrow  streets.  In  their  shade 
sit  old  women  with  distaffs,  and  the  click  of  the  looms 
issues  from  the  sturdy  houses  built  of  solid  blocks  of 
granite. 

At  Taipas  we  were  tempted  to  turn  off  the  road 
and  visit  the  ruins  of  Citania,  whose  curious  stones 
had  so  intrigued  us  in  the  museum  at  Guimaraes. 
But,  being  seekers  for  the  picturesque  and  not 
archaeologists,  and  being  quite  incapable  of  solving 
riddles  that  have  puzzled  all  Celto-Iberian  scholars, 
we  gave  up  the  expedition  and  proceeded  to  climb 
the  Falperra  Range.  We  ascended  through  pines 
and  chestnuts  to  open  pastures,  where  herds  of  oxen 
graze  among  purple  granite  boulders,  mighty  isolated 
monoliths  that  the  Cyclops  might  have  hurled  after 
fleeing  Ulysses.  Near  Santa  Marta  in  Cima  we 
topped  the  pass  and  quickly  descended  until  Braga 
lay  disclosed,  sunning  itself  in  the  clear  morning  air. 

[114] 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND   ITS  ROMARIAS 

The  women  washing  by  the  river  hooked  up  as  we 
rattled  over  the  Ijridge  and  through  a  narrow  street, 


"Whose  Jalousies  Recall  the  Days  of  Moorish  Occupation 


crowded  with  ragged  urchins;  then  we  rumbled  into 
a  square,  the  Campo  Santa  Anna,  and  with  a  crack 
of  the  whip  drew  up  at  the  hotel. 

[115] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

We  first  visited  the  cathedral,  as  that  seemed  the 
proper  thing  to  do,  for  does  not  Braga  claim  to  be 
the  oldest  see  in  the  peninsula,  and  does  not  its 
archbishop  claim  primacy  of  all  the  Spains?  The 
church  seems  modest  for  these  pretensions,  but  in 
the  streets  about  it  cluster  a  number  of  shops  that 
add  to  its  ecclesiastical  atmosphere — shops  that 
cater  to  the  wants  of  the  numerous  clergy  who  visit 
the  primatial  palace  near  by.  Some  of  them  display 
vestments  of  damask  and  brocade,  others  hangings 
of  rich  silks.  In  one  we  watched  a  white-haired 
artisan  polish  a  pair  of  silver-gilt  candlesticks,  while 
on  shelves  behind  him  pyxes  and  monstrances, 
crosses  and  reliquaries  stood  ready  for  delivery;  in 
another  a  brown-bearded  sculptor  who  looked  like  a 
monk  showed  us  a  life-sized  Christ  that  he  was 
carving  from  a  block  of  cedar-wood  brought  from 
far  Nicaragua. 

In  these  same  by-streets  are  houses  whose  jalousies 
recall  the  days  of  Moorish  occupation,  and  old 
churches,  like  Sao  Joao,  that  are  strange  architec- 
tural medleys,  mixtures  of  every  known  style. 

The  beggars  of  Braga  deserve  a  niche  to  them- 
selves, fit  subjects  as  they  are  for  a  Rembrandt  or 

[116] 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND  ITS  ROMARIAS 

a  Callot.  Such  tatterdemalions,  such  ragamuffins,  I 
have  seldom  if  ever  seen — mere  bundles  of  rags  and 
patches.  One  boy  I  shall  never  forget,  whose  shirt 
consisted  solely  of  a  neckband  and  a  single  strip  of 
cloth,  that  hung  down  in  front,  his  own  naked  body, 
brown  and  dirty,  showing  everywhere  else,  except 
w  here  covered  by  a  ragged  coat.  He  w^ore  a  pair  of 
man's  trousers,  also  in  tatters,  and  cut  off  above  the 
knees,  and  held  in  place  by  an  ancient  solitary  string 
that  threatened  at  any  instant  to  break. 

Though  Braga  itself  is  interesting,  I  should  ad- 
vise any  one  who  proposed  to  spend  more  than  a 
day  or  two  in  its  vicinity  to  make  his  headquarters 
at  Bom  Jesus  do  Monte,  a  sanctuary  perched  upon  a 
hill  near  by,  where  there  is  a  comfortable  hotel  kept 
by  the  same  proprietor  as  the  one  in  town. 

And  what  a  view  you  enjoy  from  your  window ! 

These  face  upon  a  terrace  bordered  by  a  curtain 
of  trees,  beyond  which  the  mountain  drops  sheer  a 
thousand  feet  or  more  to  a  level  of  rolling  hills  cov- 
ered with  vineyards  that  stretch  like  Persian  car- 
pets, whose  curving  patterns  are  outlined  with 
feathery,  vine-clad  trees  that  soften  the  landscape 
and  give  it  the  atmospheric  effect  of  finely  woven 

[117] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

tapestry.  The  long  line  of  Braga's  winding  street 
leads  off  to  the  city  spreading  itself  on  a  hill 
crest,  its  pink  roofs  framed  in  green.  Chapels, 
churches,  crosses  mark  other  hill-tops  that  recede 
one  beyond  another,  till  far  away  a  long  silver 
thread  of  the  Cavado  River  marks  the  bottom  of 
the  valley,  beyond  which  a  line  of  purple  mountains 
screens  the  sea. 

Toward  sunset  the  effects  are  magical  and  the 
sweet-toned  voices  of  Braga's  many  bells  come  faintly 
to  your  ears  in  drowsy  chimes. 

In  the  daylight  hours  you  may  wander  in  the 
woods  that  surround  the  sanctuary,  not  as  extensive 
as  those  at  Bussaco  nor  as  beautiful,  but  lovely 
pleasure-grounds,  nevertheless,  where  redwoods  and 
oaks,  ilex  and  chestnuts  grow  side  by  side,  and  long 
avenues  of  twisted  cork-trees  recall  Fragonard's 
"Allee  Ombrageuse."  We  enjoyed  several  days  of 
this  peaceful  quiet,  then  waited  impatiently  for  the 
end  of  the  week,  for  we  especially  wanted  to  see  a 
great  romaria  that  was  then  to  take  place. 

Most  visitors  to  Portugal  miss  these  romarias 
altogether  by  coming  either  too  early  in  the  spring 
or  too  late  in  the  autumn.    Yet  they  are  the  most 

[118] 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND   ITS   ROMARIAS 


characteristic  expression  of  the  soul  of  the  people 
that  one  can  see,  and  I  should  say  the  most  typical 
merr^nnakings  left  in  Europe  to-day.    All  the  latent 


—  _t 


'  L 


Church  of  Sao  Joao,  Braga 


happiness  repressed  during  the  winter  and  the  long 
work-days  of  early  spring,  then  bursts  into  flower 
and  intoxicates  itself  with  light  and  color,  movement 
and  life. 

The  girls  put  on  their  gayest  attire  (and  gay  it  is, 

[119] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

indeed);  the  young  men  don  their  Sunday  raiment; 
the  hamlets  empty  themselves  and  young  and  old 
in  jo;>^ul  bands,  singing  and  dancing  as  they  go, 
set  forth  for  the  place  of  pilgrimage.  The  golden 
dust  rises  from  the  powdery  road  kicked  by  the  feet 
of  the  romeiros  in  rhythmic  measure  while  viola 
answers  guitar  and  the  girls'  throats  fling  their  shrill 
falsetto  notes  into  the  air.  What  matters  who  is  the 
patron — whether  he  be  Our  Lord  of  the  Stone  at 
Espinho  or  Our  Lord  of  the  Sailors  at  Bom  Jesus? 
What  matters  the  distance — the  leagues  to  be  cov- 
ered ?  There  is  music  at  the  end  and  life  and  gaiety 
and  wine;  flags  fluttering  from  tall  mastheads, 
foguetes  bursting  like  bombs  in  the  air  and  an  il- 
luminated church,  drowsy  with  incense,  resplendent 
with  a  thousand  candles. 

Romarias  of  Portugal !  Who  that  has  seen  you 
would  ever  forget  your  charm — relic  of  Hellenic 
festivals,  feasts  of  color,  and  the  joy  of  human  com- 
radeship ! 

During  our  stay  in  Portugal  we  saw  three  of  these 
pilgrimages,  including  the  celebrated  one  at  Mat- 
tozinhos.  But  the  one  I  like  best  to  remember  was 
certainly  this  at  Bom  Jesus  do  Monte.    The  back- 

[120] 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND   ITS  ROMARIAS 

ground  alone  is  admirable,  and  its  distance  from 
any  considerable  city  makes  it  a  true  peasant  affair. 
The  day  before,  as  early  as  dawn,  ox-wains  began 
to  arrive,  toiling  up  the  steep  mountain,  their  wooden 
axles  creaking  like  hurt  dogs. 

Some  brought  rude  collapsible  booths;  others 
tables  and  benches  for  the  outdoor  kitchens;  others 
again  awnings  and  trinkets  to  be  sold — but  the  most 
brought  casks  of  wine.  These  were  backed  into 
place,  the  casks  remaining  upon  the  rude  carts, 
whose  spokeless  wheels  recalled  remotest  antiquity; 
then  cask  and  cart  alike  were  decked  with  oak 
boughs  or  grape-vines  and  earthen  jars  stuck  upon 
poles  to  serve  as  drinking-vessels. 

The  preparations  continued  apace.  Hammers 
tapped  everywhere;  garlands  of  lights  were  ar- 
ranged before  the  great  church  and  in  the  woods 
about  it;  flags  and  banners  were  hung  on  tall  poles. 
Finally,  the  roadways  were  cleared  of  dead  leaves 
and  swept  up,  so  that  by  evening  all  was  in  readi- 
ness for  the  morrow. 

At  daybreak  the  peasants  began  to  arrive.  They 
came  in  little  troops  of  a  dozen  or  more,  the  women 
gay  in  yellows  and  reds,  the  men  in  sombre  colors  or 

[m] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

black.  All  sang  as  they  walked,  accompanying  each 
other  with  viola  or  tambourine,  and  every  few  min- 
utes the  women  would  break  into  a  dance,  rhythmic 
and  cadenced,  snapping  their  fingers  and  bending 
their  waists  in  time  to  the  spirited  music. 

Troop  after  troop  arrived,  some  issuing  from  the 
woods  behind  the  church,  some  coming  by  the  roads 
that  curved  up  from  the  valley  and  others  mount- 
ing the  monumental  scala,  a  wilderness  of  stairs 
that  forms  the  main  approach  for  pilgrims.  On  its 
steps  they  would  pause  on  each  of  the  landings  and 
peer  into  the  chapels  where  the  story  of  the  Passion 
is  depicted  by  life-sized  wooden  figures  colored  and 
gilded  that  recall  Gaudenzio  Ferrari's  terra-cottas 
at  Varallo — some  of  them  remarkably  life-like  with 
settings  of  growing  plants  placed  against  a  painted 
background. 

At  each  chapel  the  men  removed  their  hats,  and 
with  their  women  pressed  their  faces  against  the 
gratings  in  rapt  attention,  some  lighting  small  can- 
dles, others  dropping  coppers  into  boxes  provided 
for  that  purpose.  They  stared  too  at  the  curious 
Fountains  of  the  Senses,  and  at  the  stone  statues  of 
saints  and  martyrs,  blotched  with  lichens  that  make 

[  122] 


The  Moniutu'utal  Scala,  Bom  Jesus 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND   ITS   ROMARIAS 

this  calvary  so  fantastic.  At  length  they  readied  tlie 
great  church  whose  bells  had  been  calHng  since  early 
morning. 

By  ten  o'clock  the  crowd  became  dense  and  the 
shuffle  of  thousands  of  feet  filled  the  air  with  a  fine 
golden  dust.  The  chimes  now  pealed  a  great  bob- 
major  and  the  church  filled — hushed  and  quiet  in 
contrast  to  the  movement  outdoors,  the  women 
kneeling  on  the  stone  floor,  the  men  standing  rever- 
ently in  the  background,  while  clouds  of  incense 
veiled  the  myriad  candles.  Brocades  and  damasks 
hung  from  the  drum  of  the  dome.  The  pilasters 
were  twined  with  garlands,  the  altar  rails  graced 
with  growing  plants.     By  noon  mass  was  finished. 

The  crowds,  in  the  open  air  again,  singing  and  danc- 
ing, joking  and  laughing,  made  for  the  big  booths, 
where  in  camp  kitchens  stews  were  steaming  and 
fish  were  frying.  Here  at  long  tables,  crowded  to 
overflowing,  they  munched  their  coarse  bread,  their 
potatoes  and  fruits,  washing  them  down  with  maduro 
verde,  the  tart  little  wine  of  the  country.  The  wine- 
casks  on  the  ox-wagons  were  tapped,  their  Inmg- 
holes  became  purple,  and  their  contents  went  sizzling 
down  dry  throats  hoarse  with  singing. 

[ns] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Itinerant  booksellers  vaunted  their  cheap  wares 
— chap-books  and  pamphlets,  lurid  tales  of  adven- 
ture, *' Lovers'  Treasures,"  fairy  stories  and  bits  of 
cheap  philosophy  in  the  form  of  rhymed  dialogues. 
The  varied  types  passed  by — people  who  have  been 
called  "the  finest  peasantry  in  Europe  to-day" — 
clean-cut  youths  larking  with  pretty  girls;  handsome 
women  straight  as  caryatides  balancing  amphorse  on 
their  heads;  beggars  in  tatters  with  the  manners  of 
hidalgos  who  bow  low  to  you  even  though  you  refuse 
the  cinco  reis  they  so  humbly  ask. 

The  mountains  of  coarse  rye  bread  grow  lower. 
The  air  is  filled  with  the  sound  of  voices  and  of 
laughter,  with  the  scent  of  roasting  chestnuts  and 
frying  oil.  The  animation  becomes  intense,  rhythmic 
strains  of  guitar  and  viola,  accordion  and  tambour- 
ine are  ever  present,  and  everywhere  groups  are 
dancing. 

How  different  these  dances  from  those  of  northern 
climes !  In  the  northlands  people  dance  from  the 
hips  down,  holding  the  body  more  or  less  rigid,  as  in 
the  jig,  the  reel,  and  hornpipe.  Agility  is  the  chief 
characteristic.  In  the  south  the  dances  are  an  ex- 
pression  of  emotion  and  poetry,   the  body,  head, 

[  124  ] 


^'•Bl'1^ 


-  .c,  r< 


c  »»»rT\o 


Corner  of  a  Romaria 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND   ITS  RO^VIARIAS 

arms,  and  hands  playing  quite  as  much  a  part  as 
the  feet.  Here  in  North  Portugal  they  dance  the 
modas  da  roda — rounds  where  the  man  pursues  the 
woman  in  a  variety  of  graceful  steps,  she  bending 
away  from  him,  snapping  her  finger,  he  buzzing 
round  her  like  a  bee  round  a  rose.  Sometimes  the 
measure  is  lively,  as  in  the  boleros,  sometimes  grave, 
as  in  the  malhao  triste,  but  always  full  of  a  rhythm 
difficult  to  withstand. 

During  these  dances  you  may  admire  the  beauty 
of  the  women's  costumes — their  brilliant  petticoats 
ornamented  with  colored  borders,  their  velvet  aprons 
trimmed  with  jet,  their  embroidered  bodices  and  the 
fringed  kerchiefs  that  they  wear  knotted  round  their 
heads  and  folded  across  their  breasts.  On  these 
they  display  their  wealth  of  jewelry — the  elaborate 
and  costly  goldsmith's  work  that  we  had  admired  in 
the  Rua  das  Flores — chains  and  crosses,  lockets  and 
hearts  in  glittering  array.  All  their  wealth  is  in- 
vested in  these  golden  trinkets,  passed  from  genera- 
tion to  generation,  and,  though  a  young  w^oman  may 
be  barefoot,  five  golden  chains  may  hang  about  her 
neck  and  two  huge  pairs  of  earrings  dangle  to  her 
shoulders. 

[125] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

The  prettiest  costumes  come  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Barcellos  and  Vianna  de  Castello,  made  en- 
tirely by  hand  and  trimmed  with  elaborate  patterns. 
Dainty  slippers,  handsome  handkerchiefs,  and  an 
aljibeiray  or  embroidered  purse,  complete  the  details 
of  one  of  the  most  becoming  peasant  costumes  that  I 
know.  The  wealthy  young  farmers  and  vineyard- 
is  ts  also  attract  attention.  They  wear  short  jackets 
trimmed  with  braid,  with  silver-linked  buttons  at 
the  wrist,  and  sometimes  all  the  way  up  to  the 
elbow.  Their  trousers  are  tight-fitting,  but  flare  at 
the  ankle,  their  hats  are  felt  and  very  wide  of  brim, 
and  they  carry  long  spades,  chosen  with  great  care 
for  their  strength  and  pliability. 

Among  these  young  men  the  spirit  of  the  trouba- 
dores  still  persists,  for  they  love  to  sing  and  to  match 
each  other  in  desgarrados  a  viola,  an  interesting  fea- 
ture of  these  romarias — improvisations  accompanied 
by  violin,  in  which  they  throw  back  answer  and 
reply,  keeping  their  company  in  high  spirits  as  each 
tries  to  outdo  the  other  in  a  tournament  of  wits. 

Then,  when  tired,  they  adjourn  again  to  the  wine- 
casks,  and  before  the  sign  "vinho  particular ,''  that  is, 
"from  my  own  vineyard,"  cool  their  parched  throats. 

[  126] 


NORTH  PORTUGAL  AND  ITS  ROMARIAS 

The  wine  and  the  warm  summer  sun  heat  their 
heads.  The  dancers  step  to  a  hveher  measure;  the 
fete  in  full  swing  reaches  its  climax. 

Then  the  shadows  begin  to  steal  across  the  ter- 
race. They  lengthen  and  the  evening  brings  quiet. 
The  crowds  slip  away.  The  vast  terrace  is  almost 
deserted  and  soon  the  shadows  of  night  bring  still- 
ness and  repose.  Romarias  of  Portugal !  Who  that 
has  seen  you  will  ever  forget  your  charm, — ^your  savor 
of  rustic  landscape,  of  smiling  valleys  and  cottages 
where  happy  children  play  in  the  shade  of  blossom- 
ing orange-trees,  scenes  that  remind  us,  as  I  have 
said,  of  the  bacchanalias  of  ancient  Greece,  with 
their  suave  pagan  choruses,  half  hymn,  half  song — 
floating  in  the  clear,  calm  air.'^ 


[127] 


VI 
AN  ADVENTURE  IN  SALAIVL4NCA 


AN  ADVENTURE   IN   SALAMANCA 

WE  had  departed  from  Oporto  at  noon,  and, 
having  left  the  vine-clad  banks  of  the 
Douro  behind  us,  had  traversed  the  bleak 
and  treeless  highlands  that  separate  Portugal  from 
Spain,  so  that  it  was  close  to  ten  o'clock  at  night 
when  we  finally  reached  Salamanca.  We  were,  I 
think,  the  only  passengers  to  alight  there,  and  when 
we  issued  from  the  station,  after  collecting  our  lug- 
gage in  the  blackness  of  the  night,  the  one  carriage 
that  had  been  waiting  was  disappearing  down  the 
road  toward  the  lights  of  the  city  that  twinkled 
dimly  in  the  distance. 

There  was,  however,  a  dilapidated  old  diligencia 
standing  dejectedly  before  the  station,  and  into  this 
we  clambered  and  told  the  driver — a  swarthy  des- 
perado, capped  with  a  broad  sombrero,  and  wearing 
a  kerchief  loosely  knotted  round  his  neck,  and  a 
short  jacket  that  bellied  in  the  wind — to  drive  us  to 
the  best  hotel  in  town.  He  muttered  something  or 
other   under   his   breath,   and   his   companion,    the 

[131] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

guardiUf  an  equally  sinister-looking  personage, 
slammed  the  door  and  climbed  upon  the  back  step 
of  the  omnibus,  where  he  stood,  peering  in  at  us 
through  the  little  window. 

We  entered  the  town  by  the  Porta  de  Zamora, 
and  rattled  down  the  street  of  the  same  name  until 
we  drew  up  at  the  Hotel  del  Comercio.  The  look  of 
it  was  ominous,  for,  gathered  before  it  on  the  side- 
walk, sat  or  stood  chattering  groups  of  people,  stout 
duenas  with  their  daughters  or  nieces  and  young 
men  and  their  fathers  talking  animatedly  in  the 
warm  June  evening  air.  The  corridors  of  the  hotel 
were  also  filled  to  overflowing,  and  it  was  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  that  I  finally  made  my  way  to  the 
desk  to  ask  for  a  room. 

The  clerk  looked  at  me  pityingly  and  told  me  that 
not  only  had  he  no  room  to  offer  me,  but  that  every 
hallway  was  filled  with  cots,  for  we  had  arrived  at 
the  moment  of  the  examinations  at  the  university, 
and  that  the  relatives  and  friends  of  the  students 
had  all  come  to  town  for  the  commencement  exer- 
cises. He  doubted  indeed  if  we  could  find  a  room 
in  the  city,  and  this,  we  found,  was  what  the  driver 
of  the  omnibus  had  mumbled  at  the  station.     Visits 

[132] 


AN  ADVENTURE  IN  SALAMAxNCA 

to  several  other  hotels  confirmed  these  predictions, 
so,  behind  the  dejected  mules,  we  rumbled  into  a 
corner  of  the  stately  Plaza  Mayor  and  drew  up  near 
the  Despacho  Central. 

A  policeman  came  up  and  made  some  inquiries, 
and  the  guardia  went  off  to  try  some  fondas  and 
posadas  that  he  knew  of,  while  we  waited  patiently 
in  the  omnibus.  Several  good  citizens  and  boys 
also  interested  themselves  in  our  behalf,  but  reports 
from  scouts  grew  less  and  less  hopeful,  for  it  seemed 
that,  besides  the  parental  hordes,  a  body  of  some 
two  thousand  pilgrims  on  their  way  to  northern 
Spain  were  spending  the  night  in  the  city,  and  had 
preempted  every  bed  in  town.  It  really  began  to 
look  as  if  we  might  have  to  pass  the  remainder  of 
the  night  in  the  diligencia  in  the  corner  of  the  Plaza 
Mayor. 

At  last,  however,  the  guardia  returned  triumphant. 
He  had  found  a  friend  who  would  give  up  his  own 
bed  to  us.  So  he  led  us  off,  accompanied  by  the  po- 
liceman, through  some  dark  alleys,  to  a  tiny  square 
in  one  corner  of  which  lights  gleamed  in  a  modest 
wine-shop. 

We  entered  and  found  it  filled  with  men  smoking 

[133] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

and  drinking.  Behind  a  counter  lay  a  row  of  bar- 
rels from  which  a  man  was  dispensing  wine.  Long 
strands  of  garlic  hung  from  the  ceiling;  the  walls 
were  plastered  with  flamboyant  posters  of  bull-fights, 
while  perched  upon  the  stairs  that  ascended  to  the 
upper  floors  of  the  house  were  parrots  of  gorgeous 
plumage  and  birds  in  gaily  painted  cages. 

A  buxom  woman  who  was  cooking  at  a  charcoal- 
stove  in  a  corner  advanced  to  greet  us,  and  led  us 
down  a  long  passage  into  a  high-ceilinged  room  or, 
rather,  a  sort  of  covered  courtyard,  whitewashed, 
and  lighted  and  ventilated  only  by  a  couple  of  small 
windows,  not  more  than  a  foot  square,  cut  in  the 
wall  high  up  near  the  ceiling.  Down  the  centre  of 
the  room  ran  a  long  table,  still  decorated  with  odds 
and  ends  of  fruit,  with  cut  cheeses,  with  emptied 
bottles  and  other  relics  of  a  feast  that  had  regaled 
some  of  the  pilgrims,  who  now  lay  asleep  up-stairs, 
and  whose  shoes  decorated  the  stairway  that  I  have 
described. 

From  this  courtyard  there  opened  an  alcove,  un- 
lighted  and  unventilated,  but  very  clean,  and  closed 
only  by  a  pair  of  glass  doors.  In  this  alcove  stood  a 
monumental  bed  which  our  kindly  hostess  described 

[134] 


AN  ADVENTURE  IN  SALAMANCA 

as  her  cama  de  matrimonio^  or  marriage-bed,  and 
this  she  offered  us  for  the  night.  She  asked  for  time 
to  change  the  Hnen,  so  we  went  off  into  the  Plaza 
Mayor  again,  where  we  sat  down  at  a  cafe. 

The  prospect  of  a  night  in  the  stuffy  alcove,  per- 
meated with  the  odors  of  wine  and  cookery  and  by 
the  sounds  of  talking  and  the  strumming  of  guitars, 
was  none  too  alluring,  so  we  decided  to  stay  as  long 
as  we  could  in  tlie  cafe,  watching  the  students  at 
the  tables  or  walking  arm  in  arm  under  the  broad 
arcades  of  the  vast  plaza  outside,  one  of  the  finest 
in  Spain,  surrounded  as  it  is  with  harmonious  build- 
ings and  decorated  with  palms  and  formal  gardens. 

In  the  small  hours  of  the  morning  we  returned 
to  our  fonda,  retired  to  tlie  alcove,  and  climbed  into 
the  billowy  feather-bed  that  heaved  like  the  waves 
of  the  sea  each  time  that  one  moved  an  arm  or  a 
leg.  Loud  voices  and  sounds  of  laughter  still  came 
from  the  wine-shop,  but  presently  these  subsided, 
the  street  door  closed,  and  the  rasp  of  the  great  lock 
told  us  that  the  last  guest  had  departed  and  that 
the  house  would  soon  be  wrapped  in  slumber.  I 
heard  slippered  feet  in  the  courtyard,  and  then  a 
deep  and  regular  breatliing  told  me  tliat  our  host 

[135] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

was  sleeping  on  the  long  table  instead  of  in  tlie  bed 
that  we  were  occupying. 

Very  early  in  the  morning  the  pilgrims  departed, 
their  noisy  leave-takings  waking  us  after  only  a  few 
hours'  rest.  Later,  when  we  were  partly  dressed, 
there  was  a  gentle  tap  on  the  glass  door,  and  we 
were  told  that  a  room  up-stairs  was  now  cleared  and 
at  our  disposal. 

It  was  indeed  a  very  comfortable  room,  light  and 
airy,  and  quite  unHke  the  one  that  we  had  just  left, 
with  a  large  double  window  opening  upon  a  balcony 
that  overlooked  the  plazuela  or  little  square  upon 
which  the  wine-shop  fronted.  It  was,  too,  nicely 
furnished,  but  the  things  that  immediately  arrested 
the  attention  were  the  multitudinous  objects  with 
which  it  was  decorated. 

On  the  centre-table,  amid  a  profusion  of  artificial 
flowers  and  ornate  blue  vases,  stood  a  porcelain 
bull,  glazed  in  nature's  colors,  with  a  wreath  of  roses 
round  his  neck.  The  lower  walls  of  the  room  were 
hung  with  photographs,  mostly  autographed  and 
dedicated,  of  illustrious  matadors  and  simpering 
ladies  in  mantillas,  and  in  at  least  a  dozen  of  tliem 
we  recognized  our  host.    The  upper  walls  were  hung 

[136] 


AN  ADVENTURE  IN  SALAMANCA 

with  bright  chromos  of  reHglous  subjects,  while  over 
the  bed  hung  a  crucifix  and  a  henitier  filled  with 
holy  water.  Between  the  pictures,  crossed  swords 
and  handerillas  were  placed,  and  it  did  not  take 
much  perspicacity  to  tell  us  that  we  were  in  the 
home  of  a  bull-fighter. 

The  wife  now  appeared  bearing  a  tray  with  our 
breakfast  spread  upon  it,  and  this  she  placed  on  a 
table  by  tlie  open  window.  In  a  moment  she  re- 
turned with  Loretta,  a  gorgeous  parrot  that  she 
placed  on  the  balcony  rail  just  over  the  demijohn 
tliat  told  the  passer-by  that  we  sold  wine  in  our 
house.  Then  the  cats  appeared  and  after  them  tlie 
dogs,  among  these  latter  a  tiny  white  spaniel,  ''muy 
precioso,'*  we  were  informed,  that  wheezed  and 
coughed  and  finally  curled  up  upon  a  deerskin  rug 
and  there  fell  asleep. 

When  we  asked  senora  about  her  husband,  "Ah, 
yes,"  she  said,  "he  is  a  lidiador  de  toros,  and  between 
his  journeys  to  the  bull-rings  of  Spain,  he  dispenses 
wine  in  this  house,  which  I  keep  during  his  absences.'* 

After  breakfast  we  went  out  to  see  the  city,  the 
seat  of  the  oldest  university  in  Spain,  one  of  tlie 
most  venerable  in  Europe,  ranking,  as  early  as  the 

[137] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

thirteenth  century,  with  Bologna,  Paris,  and  Ox- 
ford as  one  of  tlie  four  great  universities  of  the  world. 
Several  of  my  forebears  had  held  professorships  at 
this  ancient  seat  of  learning,  so  it  was  with  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  curiosity  that  we  directed  our  steps 

toward  it. 

The  University  of  Salamanca  fronts  on  the  quiet 
Httle  Plazuela  de  la  Universidad,  that,  surrounded 
as  it  is  by  collegiate  buildings,  is  almost  like  a 
"quad."  In  its  centre  rises  a  simple  monument  to 
the  ecclesiastical  poet  Fray  Luis  de  Leon,  who,  with 
Cervantes  and  Cardinal  Ximenes,  ranks  as  one  of 
the  most  distinguished  students  that  the  university 
has  produced.  Along  the  south  side  of  the  square 
stand  the  Escuelas  Menores,  or  lesser  schools,  while 
upon  its  east  side  rises  the  beautiful  fagade  of  the 
Escuelas  Mayores,  one  of  the  most  brilHant  examples 
of  the  plateresque  style  in  Spain.  Above  the  cen- 
tral door-jamb  appear  the  busts  of  its  builders, 
Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  and  it  is  further  adorned 
with  medallions,  armorial  bearings,  and  a  profusion 
of  rich  detail,  until  its  surface  is  harmoniously  fretted 
with  a  somewhat  excessive  richness,  relieved,  how- 
ever, by  the  plainness  of  the  stone  walls  behind  it. 

[  138  ] 


r 


1 


i  M 


Facade  of  the  University  of  Salamanca 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

The  lecture-rooms  of  the  university  surround  a 
spacious  courtyard,  plain  and  cloister-like  in  ap- 
pearance, that,  in  the  sixteenth  century,  swarmed 
with  the  seven  thousand  students  that  flocked  to 
it  from  all  the  countries  of  Europe.  Now  it  counts 
but  a  sixth  of  that  number. 

The  excitement  attendant  upon  the  commence- 
ment exercises  of  even  these  few  students  had,  how- 
ever, quite  upset  the  ordinary  decorum  of  the  place, 
and  our  visit  was,  in  a  measure,  a  disappointment, 
for  the  library,  with  its  rare  manuscripts  and  papers, 
was  closed  and  the  usual  atmosphere  of  the  ancient 
institution  was  gone. 

Our  next  visit  (being  good  Americans)  was  to 
the  old  Dominican  convent  that  adjoins  the  church 
of  San  Esteban,  in  a  room  of  which,  called  the  Salon 
de  Profundis,  Christopher  Columbus  tried  in  vain 
to  convince  the  professors  of  the  university  of  the 
feasibility  of  his  plan  to  discover  a  new  route  to 
India.  These  learned  doctors,  however,  pronounced 
his  scheme  "vain,  impracticable,  and  resting  on 
grounds  too  weak  to  merit  the  support  of  govern- 
ment." Their  opinion  was  not  shared  by  the  head 
of  the  convent.  Fray  Diego  de  Deza,  who  remained 

[140] 


AN  ADVENTURE  IN  SALAMANCA 

the  constant  friend  and  supporter  of  Columbus,  and 
in  gratitude  to  him  the  great  discoverer  named  the 
first  land  he  sighted  Santo  Domingo,  and  used  the 
first  virgin  gold  that  he  brought  back  with  him  from 
the  New  World  to  gild  the  retablo  behind  the  high 
altar  of  San  Esteban,  the  Dominican's  church,  where 
its  fire  still  smoulders  under  the  dark  arch  of  the 
coro. 

The  remainder  of  the  day  we  spent  in  and  around 
the  new  and  old  cathedrals.  The  old  cathedral  is 
particularly  strong  and  fortress-like  in  appearance. 
Its  walls  are  exceedingly  massive  and  thick  and  are 
decorated  only  with  the  severe  ornament  of  the 
Romanesque  style.  Above  them  rises  the  beautiful 
Torre  del  Gallo,  an  octagonal  lantern  with  a  crock- 
eted  spire  and  a  scalloped  roof,  that  will  immediately 
recall  to  most  Americans  H.  H.  Richardson's  tow^er 
of  Trinity  Church  in  Boston,  for  which  it  served  as 
a  model. 

The  old  cathedral  as  we  see  it  to-day  is  practically 
the  work  of  Fray  Geronimo,  comrade-confessor  of 
The  Cid,  he  who  supported  the  body  of  the  great 
Campeador  on  its  last  ride  from  Valencia  to  its  final 
resting-place  in  the  grim  convent  of  Cardena.    The 

[141] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Cid's  body,  clad  in  shining  armor,  with  the  re- 
doubted sword  Tisona  clasped  in  his  dead  hand, 
mounted  upright  upon  his  charger,  Bavieca,  who, 
according  to  the  legend,  wept  bitter  tears  at  the 
death-bed  of  his  master,  was  borne  across  the  up- 
lands of  Old  Castile  to  the  spot  selected  by  Rodrigo 
as  his  final  burial-place: 

A  San  Pedro  de  Cardena 
Mando  que  mi  cuerpo  llevan, 

and  there  interred.  Geronimo  lies  buried  in  a  chapel 
behind  the  high  altar  of  the  new  cathedral,  in  which 
also  hangs  *'E1  Cristo  de  las  Batallas,"  the  bronze 
crucifix  that  The  Cid  always  carried  in  his  battles. 

The  new  cathedral  was  begun  early  in  tlie  six- 
teenth century,  when  the  old  cathedral  seemed  no 
longer  adequate  for  the  needs  of  proud  Salamanca. 
It  was  designed  in  a  florid  Gothic  style  that  was  still 
prevalent  in  Spain,  though  it  had  been  superseded 
in  most  other  countries  by  the  Renaissance.  The 
west  front,  especially  the  vast  central  portal,  is  ex- 
cessively rich  in  design.  Niches  and  canopies,  orna- 
mented with  a  profusion  of  detail,  shelter  a  multi- 
tude of  saints  and  prelates;    the  magi,  the  adoring 

[142] 


AN  ADVENTURE  IN  SALAMANCA 

shepherds,  the  crucifixion,  and  a  number  of  other 
religious  scenes  are  carved  within  its  arches.  Tlie 
massive  tower  that  dominates  it  is  one  of  the  few 
really  creditable  works  of  Churriguera,  who,  a  native 
of  Salamanca,  did  so  much  to  debase  the  already  too 
fantastic  ornament  of  the  architecture  of  Spain. 

The  interior  of  the  new  cathedral  is  lofty  and  im- 
posing, but  despite  the  ambition  of  its  builders  the 
old  cathedral  remains  the  more  interesting  building 
of  the  two. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  returned  to  our  fonda, 
and  just  before  dinner-time  there  was  a  rap  on  the 
door,  and  to  our  surprise  our  host  appeared  dressed 
in  all  the  glory  of  his  toreador's  costume.  He  was 
a  small  man  with  an  agile  and  well-knit  figure,  a 
square  jaw  and  straight  firm  moutli,  and  eyes  that 
were  always  blood-shot,  with  something  of  the  ani- 
mal in  them.  About  his  low  forehead  the  hair  was 
planted  strong  and  brushed  forward  over  the  ears. 
In  his  hand  he  carried  his  banderillas,  whose  scarlet 
tissue-paper  coverings  only  partly  concealed  the 
cruel  steel  dart  at  the  end. 

As  we  admired  him,  he  told  us  of  his  adventures, 

[143] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

and  brought  out  a  large  book,  profusely  illustrated 
— a  "Manual  of  the  Bull,"  I  think  it  was  called — 
in  which  the  virtues  and  qualities  of  these  furious 
animals  were  extolled  and  discoursed  upon  at  length. 
He  showed  us  posters  of  bull-fights  in  which  he  had 
participated  and  pointed  out  with  pride  his  name, 
Cuchareta,  printed  in  large  type  upon  them.  He 
seemed,  indeed,  to  possess  all  the  vanity  that  one 
would  naturally  expect  in  one  of  those  flattered 
favorites  of  the  populace.  In  a  special  room  up 
under  the  roof  he  kept  his  dozen  or  more  torero  cos- 
tumes, and  up  to  this  room  he  led  us  and  undid  their 
varicolored  wrappings  and  put  them  on  and  struck 
poses,  tightening  the  capa  round  his  waist  as  he 
hummed  the  march  of  the  salida,  or  throwing  his 
arms  above  his  head  as  he  called  the  bull,  with  his 
left  foot  poised  on  its  toe  ready  to  plant  the  banderi- 
llas  that  he  held  in  his  hand. 

And  he  asked,  "Are  you  going  to  see  me  next 
Sunday  in  the  ring  here.^"  We  had  not  intended 
to  stay  quite  that  long,  but  he  looked  so  eager  that 
we  weakly  said  "Yes." 

The  old  city  well  repaid  us  for  this  decision,  and 
we  spent  several  days  in  exploring  its  byways  and 

[144] 


V/ 


■ftT 


r.cr» 


»>..'?r^ 


-^^sSi^ggr^-  -^ 


Patio  oj  the  Casa  de  las  Conchas 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

picturesque  corners,  its  market-places  and  curious 
shops.  Its  churches,  it  is  true,  are  not  as  interesting 
as  those  in  some  of  the  other  Spanish  cities.  From 
the  purist's  point  of  view,  they  would  be  classified 
as  second-rate.  Built  as  they  were  in  the  heyday 
of  Salamanca's  prosperity,  in  the  late  sixteenth 
century,  they  show  only  too  plainly  the  exuberances 
and  inexhaustible  fantasy  of  the  school  of  Ber- 
ruguete.  But  to  the  lover  of  the  picturesque  they 
afford  many  a  sketchable  angle,  with  their  belfries 
and  buttresses,  their  pinnacles  and  statued  portals. 
Their  interiors,  too,  are  warm  and  mellow  in  tone, 
and  enriched  with  gilded  carvings,  with  elaborate 
ironwork,  and  huge  retablos  that  sometimes  cover 
the  whole  choir-wall  with  their  painted  statues  and 
rich  architecture. 

Among  the  palaces  of  Salamanca  there  are  sev- 
eral of  exceptional  beauty.  One  of  these  is  the  so- 
called  Casa  de  las  Conchas,  or  House  of  the  Shells, 
that  derives  its  name  from  the  thirteen  rows  of  scal- 
lop-shells that  decorate  its  fagade.  Its  rejas,  or 
ornamental  screens  that  enclose  some  of  its  windows 
like  the  moucharahis  of  the  Moors,  are  especially 
noted  examples  of  Hispanic  ironwork.     They  and 

[146] 


AN  ADVENTURE  IN  SALAMANCA 

the  escutcheon  over  the  main  doorway  bear  the 
armorial  device  of  the  Maldonados,  one  of  the  oldest 
and  most  influential  families  of  the  city,  many  mem- 
bers of  which  sleep  in  the  church  of  San  Benito,  in 
stately  tombs  with  recumbent  effigies  clad  in  full 
armor. 

Their  rivals  were  the  Monterreys,  who  also  built 
a  great  palace,  still  standing,  three  stories  in  height, 
with  its  top  floor  pierced  by  open  galleries  and  sur- 
mounted by  an  elaborate  parapet.  At  the  ends  and 
in  the  centre  of  the  long  fagade  rise  square  towers 
with  open  loggias  and  decorative  chimneys.  The 
Casa  de  las  Salinas,  erected  by  the  Fonsecas,  is  per- 
haps the  best  example  of  the  plateresque  of  them 
all,  its  front  being  embellished  with  sculpture  of  a 
high  order  of  merit:  cherubs'  and  angels'  heads, 
caryatides,  and  whimsical  grotesques  carved  on  the 
columns  of  the  door-jambs.  Its  patio  as  well  as 
that  of  the  Casa  de  las  Conchas  are  notable  examples 
of  the  beauty  of  Spanish  courtyards. 

The  principal  gate  on  the  south  side  of  the  city, 
the  Porta  del  Rio,  or  River  Gate,  leads  out  to  the 
banks  of  the  Tormes,  a  broad,  turbid  river  that  is 
here  spanned  by  a  long  stone  bridge,  the  Puente 

[147] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Romano,  a  venerable  structure  of  twenty-seven 
arches,  the  fifteen  nearest  the  city  being  of  Roman 
origin. 

This  bridge  commands  the  best  near  view  of  the 
city,  which,  in  its  ensemble,  is  not  particularly  pic- 
turesque, lying  as  it  does  on  a  barren  plain  with 
only  a  very  distant  view  of  the  Sierras  to  add  va- 
riety. But  its  little  houses,  with  their  pottery  roofs 
and  stuccoed  walls,  pile  up  charmingly  dominated 
by  the  imposing  mass  of  the  new  cathedral  that, 
built  of  a  dark  yellowish-brown  sandstone,  to  which 
time  has  imparted  a  golden  patina  like  a  rich  amber 
varnish,  towers  boldly  against  the  clear,  harsh  sky 
of  the  Spanish  plateau. 

On  Sunday  morning  we  were  again  favored  by  a 
visit  from  our  host,  who  brought  me  his  photograph, 
duly  signed  and  dedicated  to  his  gran  amigo  (for 
such  I  had  evidently  become),  and  he  said:  "You 
must  watch  for  me  this  afternoon,  especially  at  the 
entrance  of  the  third  bull."  We  asked  senora  if 
she  were  going  and  she  replied,  "No,  I  have  no  de- 
sire to  see  my  husband  in  the  ring.  I  have  never 
seen  him  and  I  do  not  want  to.    It  is  too  painful." 

Though  the  bull-ring  of  Salamanca  is  one  of  the 

[148] 


f 


i    J^gfl 


*'_st   -^''  ^ —^  •;•:-- --•.« 


Palace  of  the  Monterreys 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

largest  in  Spain,  one  must  not  expect  to  see  in  it 
fights  such  as  one  sees  in  Seville,  Madrid,  or  Bar- 
celona. The  municipality  is  too  poor  and  great 
matadors  are  too  expensive.  But  the  broad  avenue 
that  leads  out  through  the  Porta  de  Zamora  to  the 
Plaza  de  Toros  was  gay  that  Sunday  afternoon, 
alive  with  a  motley  crowd  of  students,  of  charros 
and  charras  in  their  holiday  attire  (one  of  the  most 
picturesque  costumes  left  in  Spain  to-day),  of  girls 
in  bright  calicoes — all  these  afoot — and  with  a  few 
aristocrats  in  antiquated  carriages  drawn  by  docile 
old  horses. 

The  great  ring,  vast  as  a  Roman  amphitheatre, 
was  only  about  half  filled,  but  the  aficionados  made 
up  in  enthusiasm  what  they  lacked  in  numbers.  At 
four  o'clock  the  discordant  blare  of  the  municipal 
band  rang  out;  the  cuadrilla  entered  with  that  dash 
and  dazzle  that  make  a  bull-fight  the  most  brilliant 
sight  to  be  seen  in  the  world  of  sport  to-day;  the 
alcalde  threw  the  key  into  the  ring;  an  alguacil 
picked  it  up,  opened  the  door  of  the  toril,  and  the 
first  bull  rushed  forth  into  the  arena. 

It  is  certainly  not  my  intention  to  describe  a 
Spanish  corrida,  nor  is  it  my  purpose  to  apologize 

[150] 


f''t'ir*'fi 


r ' 
/■     ' 


'iM 


1) 


If 


•»<-n 


y 


I 


i 


J 


§"1"'^  '"^'  ->>*^ 


.-ij 


r 


s 


o 
,1-. 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

for  watching  one.  One  must  take  it  as  the  Spaniard 
takes  it.  To  him  it  represents  the  noblest  sport,  "a 
conclusive  proof  of  the  vast  superiority  in  the  qualities 
concerned  of  both  the  human  and  the  taurine  species 
in  Spain."  He  understands  the  dangers  that  beset 
the  agile  toreros,  he  knows  and  weighs  the  risks  they 
run,  and  it  is  this  knowledge  of  their  danger,  of  the 
unexpected  that  may  happen  at  any  moment,  that 
keeps  him  thrilled,  constantly  on  the  alert,  strained 
to  a  high  nervous  tension,  fascinated  not,  as  some 
writers  would  have  us  believe,  by  a  bloody  spectacle, 
but  by  an  absorbing  game  that,  though  played  over 
and  over  again,  is  never  twice  alike,  affording  always 
unlooked-for  variations,  unsuspected  possibilities. 

And  the  toreadors  know  how  to  enhance  this  sus- 
pense by  adding  endless  variety  of  incident,  tempt- 
ing the  bull  and  evading  his  mad  rush  by  the 
narrowest  possible  margin,  adroitly  turning  on  their 
heels  at  the  critical  moment,  leaping  between  his 
horns,  or  nimbly  vaulting  over  his  back  with  a  pole. 

The  first  two  bulls,  that  summer  afternoon,  were 
disposed  of  in  the  usual  way.  There  was  a  scarcity 
of  horses  for  economic  reasons — and  this  was  a  bless- 
ing for  us,  though  it  raised  some  protest  from  the 

[152] 


■^■k^ 


lEHMiXLLlQ 


'/; 


"The  Matador,  too.  Was  a  Competent  Fellow^* 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Salamancans.  Our  friend  Cuchareta  acted  as  one 
of  the  handerilleros  and  placed  his  barbed  darts  with 
precision  and  address.  The  matador,  too,  was  a 
competent  fellow,  slight  and  sinewy  as  he  stood  and 
eyed  the  big  brute  before  him,  despatching  him 
finally  with  a  neat  estocada  that  brought  a  storm  of 
applause  from  the  benches  and  a  shower  of  cigars 
and  hats  about  him. 

Then  there  was  a  pause  and  a  moment  of  quiet, 
for  the  programme  announced  at  this  point  a  *'suerte 
de  Tancredo*'  performed  by  Cuchareta,  whose  name 
here  appeared  in  very  large  type.  Just  what  a 
''suerte  de  Tancredo'*  was,  I  did  not  at  that  time 
know. 

The  ring  was  carefully  resanded.  Into  this  spot- 
less arena  our  friend  stepped,  advanced  swiftly 
toward  the  alcalde's  box,  bowing  low  before  him, 
then  turned  and  asked  the  public  to  remain  per- 
fectly still  during  the  performance  of  his  trick.  A 
chulo  brought  out  a  box  and  placed  it  in  the  exact 
centre  of  the  ring.  Cuchareta  stepped  upon  this 
box,  wrapping  himself  in  his  blood-red  capeo,  that 
he  drew  tightly  about  him,  standing  thus  immov- 
able. 

[154] 


AN  AD\TNTURE  IN  SALAIMANCA 

A  blast  of  the  bugle,  the  gate  opened,  and  a  great 
black  bull  rushed  forth,  then  stood  for  a  moment 
dazed,  blinded  by  the  glaring  sunlight  after  the  dark- 
ness of  the  toril.  In  an  instant,  however,  he  recov- 
ered his  senses,  and,  seeing  only  the  flaming-red 
object  in  the  middle  of  the  arena,  with  a  snort  he 
made  a  dash  for  it,  rushing  toward  the  motionless 
figure  at  a  furious  rate  of  speed.  And  then,  when 
but  a  few  feet  from  it,  he  suddenly  stopped  short, 
sniffed  the  air,  his  tense  muscles  relaxed,  his  fury 
seemed  to  abate  as  if  by  magic,  and  taking  a  last 
look  at  the  immovable  figure  on  the  box,  he  turned 
away  and  trotted  off. 

Wild  applause  greeted  the  success  of  Cuchareta's 
exploit  as,  stepping  down  from  his  pedestal,  he 
bowed  again  and  again  as  he  walked  swiftly,  with 
one  eye  on  the  bull,  toward  the  harriera,  which  he 
lightly  vaulted,  and  disappeared  among  an  admiring 
throng.  This  curious  act  was  originated  by  a  Mexi- 
can, Tancredo  (whence  its  name),  who  lost  his  life 
at  last  in  performing  it,  for  the  bull  turned  upon 
him  as  he  left  his  pedestal,  and,  as  sometimes  hap- 
pens, gored  him  mortally  before  he  could  reach  the 
barrier. 

[155] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

After  witnessing  Cuchareta's  daring,  we  no  longer 
wondered  why  his  placid,  buxom  wife  did  not  care 
to  see  her  husband  in  the  ring. 


[156] 


MI 
TWO  HILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD  CASTILE 


TWO  HILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD 

CASTILE 


AVILA 

OUR  windows  in  the  Fonda  del  Ingles  (why 
Ingles  we  could  never  discover,  for  we  saw 
no  Englishmen  nor  heard  one  word  of  our 
native  language  while  in  the  house)  were  a  constant 
source  of  pleasure. 

They  faced  the  Cathedral  whose  castellated  west 
front  rose  just  opposite,  massive,  square,  and  for- 
tress-like, obscuring  the  sun  till  midday.  Its  hetero- 
geneous architecture,  thoroughly  characteristic  of 
Spain,  displays  a  Romanesque  portal  capped  with  a 
Gothic  arch,  in  whose  spandrils  popes  sail  on  barocco 
clouds;  all  this  in  turn  being  surmounted  by  a  course 
of  niches  with  Renaissance  saints.  At  each  side  of 
the  doorway  queer,  hairy  "wild  men" — relics  of  the 
earliest  builders — stand  guard.  They  are  aided  in 
their  work  by  quaint  old  stone  lions  crouching  on 

[159] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

pedestals  and  securely  fastened  by  means  of  heavy 
iron  chains  to  the  tower  buttresses,  doubtless  to  pre- 
vent them  from  running  away. 

The  fagade  itself  is  solemn  and  severe. 

High  atop  of  it,  we  watched  with  interest  the  hab- 
itation of  the  bell-ringer,  whose  windows,  enlivened 
with  flowers  and  hung  with  neat  white  curtains,  fill 
the  interstices  of  the  battlements.  On  the  unfin- 
ished south  tower  he  has  arranged  a  spacious  per- 
gola, where  he  may  tranquilly  enjoy  the  freshest 
breeze  in  all  the  township.  How  often  do  his  old 
rheumatic  legs  descend  those  endless  steps  to  tread 
the  pavements  of  the  city?  Not  many  times  a 
moon,  I'm  sure.  For  life  seems  cosey  away  up  there 
above  the  city's  noise,  with  the  smoke  curling  from 
the  little  chimney  and  the  washing  drying  under 
the  Spanish  tiles.  And  the  bells  must  be  gay  com- 
pany, swinging  over  and  over,  pealing  and  chiming 
every  half-hour  or  so  for  the  countless  cathedral 
masses. 

The  plaza  in  front  of  the  church  is  neatly  paved 
in  tessellated  stone  with  a  broad  walk  leading  up  to 
the  main  portal.  To  the  left  a  house  of  modernish 
appearance  blocks  the  way,   but  to  the  right  an 

[IGO] 


TWO  IIILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

ancient  palace,  retaining  all  its  mediaeval  features, 
never  ceased  to  hold  our  fancy.  Its  few  windows, 
placed  high  above  the  ground  and  even  then  enclosed 
with  stout  iron  grilles,  and  its  great,  donjon-like 
tower  forming  a  buttressed  corner,  give  it  the  air  of 
reclusion  and  safety  from  attack  needful  to  a  feudal 
dwelling.  In  the  arch  above  its  door  a  great  stone 
knight  in  pourpoint  and  doublet,  spear  in  hand,  with 
his  helmet  on  one  side  and  his  shield  upon  the  other, 
looks  down  upon  the  passer-by. 

The  great  doors  themselves  stand  always  closed, 
defying  intrusion,  studded  as  they  are  with  huge 
iron  nails,  but  furnished  with  three  ponderous  knock- 
ers, two  above  for  equestrians — the  most  frequent 
visitors  these — and  one  on  a  smaller  postern-gate 
below  for  pedestrians.  Nor  do  the  upper  knockers 
remain  to-day  merely  for  show. 

Many  a  time  we  watched  a  horseman  approach, 
strike  the  knocker,  and  then  wait.  Presently  the 
great  door  would  swing  quietly  open  and  horse  and 
rider  disappear  within.  And  if  you  should  enter 
with  him  you  would  find  yourself  in  a  sort  of  big 
stone  antechamber,  common  to  every  Castilian  casa 
solar  or  town  house  of  the  nobles,  and  you  would  see 

[161] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

the  rider  dismount  at  a  stepping-block,  while  a 
groom  took  his  horse  and  led  it  down  an  incline  into 
the  stables  in  the  cellar  below.  The  visitor  would 
then  mount  a  few  steps  and  disappear  within  the 
house. 

This  mediaeval  atmosphere  lingers  in  every  corner 
of  Avila. 

You  will  find  it  in  the  narrow,  twisting  streets, 
with  their  primitive  shops  filled  with  rude  potteries, 
with  coarsely  woven  basket-ware,  with  big  sleeping- 
blankets  and  trappings  for  mules  and  donkeys.  It 
pervades  the  calm  cloisters  of  Santo  Tomas  where 
the  Dominican  Fathers  walk  in  silence,  and  it  per- 
meates the  half-abandoned  Romanesque  churches 
with  their  naive  statues  and  crumbling  tombs  of 
saints.  It  haunts  the  palaces  round  the  Plaza  de  la 
Fruta:  the  home  of  the  Abrantes,  with  mounted 
knights  and  vassal  wild-men  carved  above  the  en- 
trance, the  home  of  the  Conde  de  Crescenti  with 
battlemented  tower  and  fine  old  plateresque  court, 
whose  staircases  of  stone  are  hung  with  rare  tapes- 
tries and  whose  rooms  are  furnished  as  befits  so 
historic  a  pile. 

You  will  find  it,  too,  in  every  external  aspect  of 

[162] 


w 


y^ — 


r 


■~f-  • 


-^    -— 


*'Massirc  IValls  and  Tonrrs  Thai  Girdle  If  Without  a  Breach" 


TWO  HILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

the  city,  for,  from  every  point  of  view,  the  town 
settles  itself  behind  massive  walls  and  towers  that 
girdle  it  without  a  breach. 

Even  its  people  have  retained  their  ancient  air. 
Sit  on  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  El  Rastro  and  watch 
the  types  go  by:  the  red-cheeked  country  lasses  in 
groups,  with  their  hair  braided  across  the  backs  of 
their  heads,  decked  with  huge  earrings  and  wearing 
bright  shawls  and  kerchiefs,  saffron,  purple,  and 
sapphire,  their  hoops  padded  with  numberless  petti- 
coats reaching  just  to  the  ankle,  and  watch  them 
coquette  with  the  young  men  tightly  modelled  in 
short  jacket  and  trousers,  their  swarthy  faces  shaded 
by  broad  sombreros.  Then,  too,  observe  the  shep- 
herds in  black  velvet  hats  and  leather  apron-breeches, 
draped  in  cloaks  and  leaning  on  their  staffs;  the 
bold  gypsy  women  in  reds  and  yellow^s;  the  dark  sil- 
houettes of  donkeys  and  horses,  gaily  harnessed,  cut 
against  the  sunny  shimmer  of  the  golden  city  walls. 
And  once  in  a  while,  among  the  wagons,  there  will 
pass  a  mule-cart  (last  descendant  of  the  travelling- 
coach),  with  a  woven  worsted  covering  of  black  and 
ochre,  alive  with  trembling  pompoms.  Inside,  you 
will  discover  women  and  men  and  children  lounging 

[163] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

on  big  mattresses  among  shawls  and  blankets  and 
pillows,  off  for  their  mountain  homes  in  the  Sierras 
leagues  away. 

And  look  behind  you  out  over  the  open  valley  and 
the  same  spirit  pervades  the  scene — a  landscape 
such  as  Patinir  depicted,  broad  yet  filled  with  in- 
finite detail,  the  silver  Adaja  winding  its  flowing 
loops  between  soft  willows;  the  dazzling  roads, 
flanked  by  tall  poplars,  leading  away  to  distant  vil- 
lages whose  pink  roofs  can  dimly  be  discerned  perched 
on  rocky  eminences  or  sheltered  in  warm  hollows; 
cypresses  standing  like  grim  sentinels  on  craggy  hill- 
slopes,  and  far  away  the  blue  Sierras,  serrated  and 
cloud-swept,  dim  and  romantic  like  vision-mountains 
of  the  sky. 

We  arrived  in  Avila  for  the  Sunday  pfter  Corpus. 
On  that  holiday,  a  Thursday,  there  had  been  a  vio- 
lent storm,  so  the  processions  had  been  adjourned 
till  Sunday. 

In  the  morning  from  our  window  we  watched  men 
sprinkle  ochre-colored  sand  before  the  cathedral — 
this  for  the  clergy  to  walk  upon — and  then  strew  it 
with  masses  of  wild  lavender  and  rose  leaves.  At 
the  windows  and  on  all  the  balconies  surrounding 

[164] 


TWO  1 1  ILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

the  Plaza  maids  appeared  to  foner  or  hang  out  the 
bright,  rich  stuffs  that  are  used  to  decorate  the 
house  fronts  on  festive  occasions.  Soon  the  clergy 
of  the  different  parishes  began  to  appear  with  their 
standards,  crosses,  and  carved  figures  of  patron 
saints  carried  on  stalwart  shoulders. 

The  great  doors  of  the  cathedral  swung  open,  a 
carriage  drove  up,  and  from  it  stepped  the  bishop  in 
his  gorgeous  purple  robes,  received  at  the  portal  by 
the  monsignori  and  by  the  principal  officers  of  the 
garrison.  Inside  the  church,  the  sombre  majesty  of 
the  choir  was  all  aglow  with  countless  candles  and 
fragrant  with  incense,  the  pillars  and  walls  richly 
dressed  with  old-rose  brocade.  Before  carved  choir- 
screens  peasants  knelt  devoutly  upon  the  pavement 
in  picturesque  groups,  and  in  dim  chapels  and  by 
the  sacristy  door  men  could  be  seen  with  bowed 
heads,  among  them  knots  of  officers  whose  decora- 
tions glowed  like  jewels  upon  their  coats. 

The  mystic  ceremony  proceeded  behind  the  glow- 
ing screens.  The  richly  vested  clergy,  shrouded  in 
clouds  of  incense,  could  be  dimly  seen  moving  about 
against  the  golden  shimmer  of  Berruguete's  retablo 
among  figures  of  saints  and  evangelists.     A  great 

[165] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

wagon  on  golden  wheels  was  now  brought  forth, 
decorated  with  silver  temples  placed  one  upon  an- 
other and  enriched  with  angels  and  cherubim  and 
all  aglow  with  candles.  The  host  was  put  upon  it. 
The  clergy  fell  into  their  allotted  places;  the  organ 
notes  swelled  to  their  grandest  diapasons;  the  pro- 
cession formed  and  from  the  gloom  of  the  church 
emerged  with  its  crosses  and  banners,  its  saints  and 
flowers  and  golden  vestments  and  palio,  into  the 
dazzling  southern  sunshine,  while  the  people  fell 
upon  their  knees  as  it  took  its  way  through  the  city 
streets. 

As  the  shadows  lengthened  on  this  Sunday  after- 
noon we  wandered  down  to  Santo  Tomas  outside 
the  city  walls.  A  ring  at  the  cloister  gate  and  soon 
we  were  seated  quietly  talking  to  Brother  Eugenio, 
whom  we  had  known  before — talking  of  New  Or- 
leans and  New  York,  where  he  had  visited.  Just 
before  high  mass  he  took  us  to  the  convent  church 
and  found  us  good  places  on  the  few  benches  placed 
within  the  nave. 

As  I  entered  its  gloom  from  the  bright  sunlight 
of  outdoors  I  blinked  for  several  minutes  before  I 
could  distinguish  anything.    Then,  out  of  the  depth 

[  166  ] 


fc 


'^"^J 


Interior  of  the  Cathedral,  Avila 


TWO  IIILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

of  shadow,  figures  took  shape;  women  of  the  sister- 
hoods in  black  with  white  straps  across  their  shoul- 
ders; peasants  squatted  upon  the  pavement  in  the 
ample  circles  of  their  skirts;  men  leaning  on  canes 
with  bowed  heads,  and  groups  of  children  trying  to 
keep  quiet  and  only  partially  succeeding.  Above 
them  groined  arches  met  in  dim  perspective.  No 
one  crowded  nearer  than  the  transept  rail  within 
whose  sacred  precinct  Fancelli's  marble  monument 
to  Prince  John,  only  son  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella, 
gleamed  white  and  ghostly,  the  calm  effigy,  hands 
clasped,  and  occupying  the  very  centre  of  the  church, 
lying  in  eternal  peace  facing  the  high  altar,  guarded 
by  angels.  Here  were  buried  the  dearest  hopes  of 
the  Catholic  kings,  just  as  their  boy  had  been 
knighted  and  prepared  w4th  such  care  for  his  royal 
work  before  the  Conquest  of  Granada. 

Then,  breaking  the  silence  from  the  coro  alto  above 
the  west  door,  came  the  peal  of  men's  voices,  and, 
turning,  we  distinguished  in  shadowy  gothic  stalls 
six-score  Dominican  brothers,  in  white  and  black, 
chanting  and  praying  in  unison.  Later  they  left  tlie 
choir  and  disappeared,  only  to  appear  again  in  tlie 
space  about  the  tomb  of  Prince  John.     Two  by  two 

[167] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

and  followed  by  their  bishop  (a  Dominican  mis- 
sionary in  the  Far  East)  they  then  formed  a  pro- 
cession and,  leading  a  reverent  crowd,  walked  out 
into  the  cloisters. 

Here  Brother  Eugenio  was  again  awaiting  us,  and 
together  we  watched  the  solemn  procession  make  its 
tour  of  tlie  three  beautiful  cloister-courts  emblazoned 
with  the  arms  of  the  Catholic  kings,  founders  of  the 
convent.  The  pavements  were  carpeted  with  wild 
lavender,  and  at  each  corner  stood  a  rustic  "sta- 
tion" before  which  the  procession  halted,  while  the 
brothers,  dropping  upon  their  knees  in  their  long 
white  robes,  seemed  actually  a  part  of  the  cowled 
figures  on  the  mediseval  tombs. 

A  few  days  later  we  were  treated  to  quite  a  dif- 
ferent scene.  This  was  the  feria,  or  animal  fair, 
held  twice  a  year  just  outside  the  city  walls. 

To  the  southward  of  Avila  the  country  is  as  I 
have  described  it  from  the  Rastro.  But  quite  dif- 
ferent is  the  view  to  the  northward.  As  you  leave 
the  gate  of  San  Vicente,  with  its  massive  crenellated 
towers  spanned  by  a  high,  bridge-like  parapet,  you 
turn  sharply  to  an  eminence  on  the  left  and  there 
dominate   an   extensive   upland   plateau   stretching 

[108] 


TWO  HILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

northward  for  many  a  league — a  barren,  rocky  wil- 
derness, practically  treeless  and  almost  devoid  of 
grass,  a  veritable  plain  of  Old  Castile. 

From  the  base  of  the  towering  city  walls,  here 
seen  to  splendid  advantage — their  great  cubos  or 
towers  aligning  themselves  with  martial  precision — 
the  land  drops  rapidly  downward,  intersected  at 
different  levels  by  roads  leading  up  to  the  various 
city  gates. 

On  this  declivity,  since  sunrise,  the  country  people 
had  been  gathering  from  far  and  wide,  bringing  with 
them  their  animals.  And  what  an  array  it  was ! 
Up  under  the  very  shadow  of  the  walls  or  nestled 
in  rocky  foundations  of  the  towers,  and  straggling 
thence  down  the  stony  heights,  were  herds  of  goats 
and  flocks  of  sheep,  huddled  in  compact  masses, 
broken  here  and  there  by  the  silhouettes  of  shep- 
herds bargaining  with  traders  from  town.  Below, 
more  sombre  masses  of  horses,  mules,  and  donkeys 
were  tethered  in  the  shade  of  a  few  lime-trees  planted 
along  the  roads;  while  lower  still,  on  flatter  levels, 
great  droves  of  cattle  cut  huge  patterns  against 
the  sun-baked  rocks.  Trains  and  caravans  of  ani- 
mals kept  coming  in,  under  the  watchful  eye  of 

[169] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

sliouting  drovers,  assisted  by  boys  heading  off  strag- 
glers and  having  no  end  of  trouble  keeping  the  herds 
together. 

Impromptu  booths  had  been  erected  here  and 
there,  where  blankets  and  bags,  harness  and  saddles, 
whips  and  rope  were  sold,  and  one  or  two  queer 
mushroom  tents  sheltered  temporary  fondas  where 
the  well-to-do  could  eat.  The  poorer  people  had 
brought  their  own  food  with  them  and  could  be  seen 
sitting  in  picturesque  groups  munching  their  bread 
and  cheese. 

And  such  quaint  costumes !  Not  the  gay  colors 
of  Andalusia,  to  be  sure,  nor  the  reds,  yellows,  and 
greens  that  one  is  accustomed  to  associate  with 
Spanish  pictures,  but  dark,  sombre,  and  tragic, 
black  and  dull  blue  predominating,  costumes  be- 
fitting the  hardy  peasants  that  struggle  incessantly 
for  a  livelihood  in  these  inhospitable  regions.  Most 
of  the  men  wore  berets  and  short  smock-frocks  bound 
round  and  round  the  waist  from  armpit  to  hips 
(though  it  was  June)  with  fold  upon  fold  of  black 
flannel — reminders  of  the  icy  winds  that  prevail 
in  winter  and  sweep  these  treeless  plateaux.  Their 
feet  are  wrapped  in  cloths  which  are  bound  to  the 

[170] 


TWO  HILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD  CASTILE 

legs  with  leatiier  thongs.  Almost  all  carry  over 
their  shoulders  heavy  plaided  blankets  in  which 
they  sleep  at  night,  either  out-of-doors  or  in  the 
posada  courts,  and  which  tliey  throw  about  them 
in  statuesque  folds  when  the  cool  wind  springs  up 
at  eventide. 

For  tliree  days  tliis  busy  scene  went  on.  Then 
came  the  grand  stampede  for  home.  Droves  that 
had  come  in  from  the  country  went  off  cityward; 
drovers  who  had  come  in  with  cattle  went  away 
with  pockets  well  lined;  long  trains  of  animals  and 
hurrying  flocks  of  sheep  could  be  seen  in  all  direc- 
tions, raising  clouds  of  golden  dust  along  the  sun- 
baked roads  as  they  briskly  trotted  off  to  their 
stables  in  the  Sierras  or  on  the  cool  upland  plateaux, 
and  the  big  ochre  walls  of  Avila  looked  down  upon 
deserted  plains  once  more. 


[171] 


n 

SEGOVIA 

AS  you  stand  upon  the  terrace  of  the  royal 
/\  palace  in  Madrid,  you  look  out  over  a  broad 
-A.  JL  expanse  of  varied  landscape  and  follow  the 
meanderings  of  the  Manzanares,  a  river  that  winds 
ofiF  through  lovely  groves  and  gardens  to  a  line  of 
loftv  mountains — the  Guadarramas — whose  sum- 
mits,  blue  and  snow-capped,  close  the  limits  of  the 
background  just  as  they  do  in  the  Velasquez  portrait 
of  the  Infante  Don  Carlos.  Among  these  mountains 
nestle  old  towTis  and  castles,  and  on  one  of  their 
northern  spurs  clamber  the  mediaeval  walls  and 
houses  of  Segovia.  As  long  as  fortresses  were  neces- 
sary or  as  men  lived  in  feudal  cities  girdled  by  walls 
and  towers,  Segovia  was  a  prosperous  and  power- 
ful city  of  Old  Castile,  but  when  the  Moor  had  been 
driven  forever  from  Spain  the  mission  of  these  war- 
rior hill  towns  was  fulfilled,  and  since  that  time 
Segovia,  httle  by  little,  has  sunk  into  a  peaceful 
slumber,    retaining,    with    its    neighbor   Avila,    the 

[172] 


TWO  HILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

charm  and  glamour  of  a  bygone  age,  the  mournful 
beauty  of  a  city  whose  decay  has  made  it  ever  more 
precious  to  the  dreamer  of  dreams  and  the  lover  of 
the  picturesque. 

The  railroad  station,  as  so  often  is  the  case  in 
Spain,  lies  somewhat  apart  from  the  town,  making 
it  a  necessity  to  use  the  rattle-trap  omnibus  that 
stands  drawn  up  before  it.  Three  mules,  harnessed 
abreast,  with  their  skins  stretched  tight  as  drum- 
heads over  their  dry  old  bones  and  their  leanness 
hidden  under  jangling  bells  and  scarlet  pompoms, 
leaped  forward  under  the  driver's  lash  as  we  started 
toward  the  city.  Luckily  we  had  taken  seats  on  tlie 
herlina,  and  I  say  luckily  advisedly,  for,  had  we  sat 
inside,  I  verily  believe  we  might  have  lost  our  hear- 
ing even  in  those  few  moments. 

Some  turbulent  imp  of  mischief  seemed  to  impel 
tlie  driver  to  speed,  for  we  entered  the  Madrid  Gate 
at  a  gallop,  clattered  on  at  the  same  wild  pace 
through  the  twisting  streets,  and  proceeded  thus 
through  the  town  to  the  accompaniment  of  urging 
cries  to  the  mules,  tlie  fierce  cracking  of  the  whip 
and  the  rattle  and  bang  of  tlie  dozen  coach-windows 
crackling  like  pistol-shots  about  our  ears.     As  we 

[173] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

tore  through  the  narrow  lanes,  people  fled  in  every 
direction  at  our  approach,  or  rushed  from  doorways 
to  grab  up  errant  children,  or  popped  out  upon  bal- 
conies to  see  what  in  the  world  was  the  matter.  We 
caught  fleeting  glimpses  of  weather-worn  houses 
tottering  on  wriggly  stilts;  of  dingy  posadas  before 
which  groups  of  overladen  donkeys  mournfully 
hung  their  heads;  of  beflowered  balconies  and  gaily 
painted  house-fronts;  then  we  plunged  into  the 
gloom  of  a  lane  narrower  than  all  the  rest,  where 
our  wheel-hubs  grazed  the  walls  on  either  hand, 
only  to  emerge  at  last  into  the  brilliancy  of  the  sun- 
baked Azoquejo. 

Could  anything  be  imagined  more  replete  with 
character  than  this  quaint  old  market-place  ?  Vener- 
able houses  straddle  its  squat  arcades  and  enclose  it 
on  every  hand,  while  across  its  very  centre,  vault- 
ing from  hill  to  hill,  piled  high  with  red-tiled  roofs, 
strides  the  colossal  puente  like  some  prehistoric 
monster  with  a  hundred  legs.  But  a  glance  at  this 
aqueduct,  vast  and  simple  as  a  work  of  nature,  is 
needed  to  tell  that  it  is  of  Roman  origin,  for  who  but 
Roman  builders  could  have  reared  such  mighty 
stones.'*     For  nearly  two  thousand  years  it  has  car- 

[174] 


The  Roman  Aqueduct,  Segovia 


TWO  IIILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

ried  upon  its  countless  arches  the  pure,  clear  waters 
of  the  Sierras  to  fill  the  fountains  of  the  city  and  the 
great  reservoirs  of  the  Alcazar,  the  favorite  home 
of  Alfonso  the  Wise.  With  its  three  tiers  of  mighty 
arches  it  remains  the  most  important  work  that  the 
Romans  left  in  Spain — so  extraordinary,  indeed, 
that  the  peasants  prefer  to  believe,  and  always  will 
believe,  I  dare  say,  that  his  Satanic  Majesty,  in 
love  with  a  beautiful  Segovian  maiden,  built  it  in  a 
single  night  to  win  her  favor  and  spare  her  the 
trouble  of  going  down  the  hill  to  fill  her  water- jug 
at  the  spring ! 

In  its  very  shadow  we  spied  the  hotel  that  we  w^ere 
seeking;  so,  picking  our  way  through  the  clutter  of 
the  market — a  litter  of  pottery,  baskets,  and  blan- 
kets— we  soon  had  chosen  a  cool  little  apartment  that 
faced  the  square  and,  having  caught  the  Spanish 
custom,  spent  most  of  that  Saturday  afternoon  hang- 
ing over  the  railing  of  our  balcony. 

At  one  hand,  towering  high  into  the  heavens  and 
framing  a  niche  of  blue  in  each  of  its  countless  arches, 
the  giant  aqueduct  arose,  and  around  its  bases  the 
peasants  bartered  and  gossiped  and  chattered.  On 
the  other  hand  the  land  sloped  sharply  away  down 

[175] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

toward  the  valley  of  the  Eresma,  cut  in  two  by  the 
main  road  to  Pedraza,  broad,  white,  and  dusty. 
Vehicles  of  every  description — covered  carts,  gigs, 
coaches,  and  lumbering  farmers'  wains  drawn  by 
patient  oxen,  kept  arriving  by  this  road  (for  Satur- 
day is  market-day),  varied  by  trains  of  slim-legged 
donkeys  trotting  under  inconceivable  loads.  And 
every  once  in  a  while  a  stage-coach  with  four  or  six 
horses  would  rumble  up  with  a  grand  flourish  and  a 
prodigious  cracking  of  whips  and  deposit  its  load  of 
sweltering  humanity  before  our  fonda:  peasants  in 
kerchiefs  or  queerly  plaited  straw  hats;  priests, 
crimson -cheeked  and  apoplectic;  or  tired -looking 
commercial  travellers  with  wilted  collars  and  dusty 
clothes. 

But  we  were  the  only  tourists  in  the  dining-room 
that  evening,  or,  in  fact,  on  any  of  the  evenings  of 
our  stay  there.  At  the  various  tables  there  were  but 
few  women.  There  were  some  sturdy  farmers,  a 
few  officers,  a  priest  or  two,  and  a  travelling  barrister 
or  doctor,  but  the  women  were  left  at  home — doubt- 
less a  survival  of  Moorish  custom,  for  the  Spanish 
lady,  though  prone  enough  to  attract  attention  on 
her  afternoon  promenade,  still  shrinks  from  showing 
herself  in  provincial  hotels. 

[176] 


^f1--'--w''/'^^' 


CAIU 


Tlie  Peasants  Bartered  and  Gossiped 


TWO  HILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTLLE 

A  large  table  of  honor  at  one  end  of  the  room  was 
occupied  by  a  mess  of  artillery  cadet-officers,  for  in 
Segovia  the  artillery  school  of  Spain  is  located. 
They  were  a  good-looking  group  of  young  fellows, 
with  clear-cut  features  and  whitish  skins,  most  of 
them  indubitably  titled,  and  one  at  least  might  have 
been  a  cousin  to  the  King,  with  his  wide  mouth  and 
ponderous  protruding  chin.  This  table  alone  was 
enough  to  keep  busy  the  single  waiter  and  his  over- 
worked assistant,  for  from  it  proceeded  a  continual 
rapping  of  glasses  and  calls  for  wine,  for  food,  for 
papers  and  ink,  for  a  messenger,  or  for  coats  and 
caps.  And  what  lusty  appetites  they  had  !  The  fruits, 
the  nuts,  the  cakes  upon  the  table  all  disappeared 
with  the  soup  or,  at  latest,  with  the  fish.  And  when 
I  chanced  to  remark  to  the  proprietor  one  day  that 
doubtless  he  was  glad  to  have  such  steady  patrons 
in  his  establishment,  he  remarked,  with  a  grunt  and 
a  shrug:  "Oh,  that — that  doesn't  bring  much  gain 
to  the  house." 

Dinner  was  late,  usually  at  nine  rather  than  at 
eight,  so  that,  when  we  went  upstairs  that  first 
evening,  the  streets  were  dark  and  deserted,  and  no 
one  was  stirring  except  the  sereno^  or  night-watch- 
man, who,  with  lantern  and  spear,  wandered  about 

[  177] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

calling  the  hour.  In  his  belt  he  carried  a  number  of 
house-keys,  and  in  his  hand  some  tapers,  and  when 
the  people  came  home  late  at  night,  he  unlocked 
their  doors  for  them  and  handed  them  a  taper  to 
light  them  up  the  stairs — an  antiquated  custom 
that  still  subsists  even  in  as  big  and  cosmopolitan 
a  city  as  Madrid. 

Next  morning  we  found  that  the  bulk  of  the  city 
lies  up  the  hill  from  the  Azoquejo.  The  Calle  del 
Carmen  leads  up  to  it,  affording  from  time  to  time, 
through  gaps  in  its  houses,  glimpses  out  over  the 
pottery  roofs  of  the  suburb  of  San  Millan  with  the 
Piedad  and  its  stations  of  the  cross  in  the  distance. 
Just  at  the  summit  of  the  hill  you  come  upon  the 
singular  Casa  de  los  Picos,  each  stone  of  whose 
fagade  is  cut  in  facets  like  a  diamond,  giving  it  a 
warlike  aspect  like  a  porcupine  bristling  for  battle. 
It  was  the  home  of  the  corregidor,  or  mayor  of  the 
city,  and  in  it  the  town  council  used  to  assemble 
to  greet  the  sovereign  when  he  came  on  a  visit,  and 
see  that  he  duly  took  his  oath  to  respect  the  fueros, 
or  privileges  of  the  city. 

The  old  streets  and  byways  of  Segovia  are  as  pic- 
turesque and  as  replete  with  character  as  any  in 

[178] 


TWO  HILL-TOWiNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

Spain.  Hidden  away  in  them  you  will  find  ancient 
house-fronts  diapered  with  rich  patterns  in  stucco, 
relics  of  the  Moorish  occupation,  and  Gothic  fagades 
five  centuries  old,  while  in  the  smaller  squares  you 
will  come  upon  palaces  whose  stout  masonry  and 
heavily  grilled  windows  have  withstood  every  as- 
sault of  man  and  time — palaces  whose  grim  fagades, 
with  their  massive  scutcheoned  doorways,  hide  be- 
hind their  ruggedness  warm  patios,  sun-baked,  deco- 
rated with  tiles  and  ornate  balustrades,  and  planted 
with  palms  and  flowering  shrubs. 

It  is  in  these  streets  of  Segovia  that  Quevedo  lays 
the  scenes  of  his  masterpiece,  "El  Gran  Tacafio," 
a  classic  that  the  Spaniards  rate  only  second  to  Cer- 
vantes's  immortal  story.  Piece  of  realism  that  it  is, 
with  its  biting  sarcastic  philosophy  hidden  under  a 
cloak  of  broad  humor,  it  might  have  been  signed  by 
any  of  the  realists  of  to-day,  so  true  to  life  do  its 
pictures  remain.  And,  as  you  walk  about  these 
streets  and  watch  the  people  in  them,  you  will  still 
find  his  types  extant  and  will  fancy  Cabra's  school 
shut  up  behind  some  grim  facade,  or  Don  Pablo's 
uncle,  the  executioner,  living  in  one  of  the  noisome 
alleys;  or,  in  some  passer-by,  proud  though  dressed 

[179] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

in  well-brushed,  threadbare  clothes,  you  will  recog- 
nize old  Don  Torribio,  the  penniless  hidalgo,  who, 
existing  by  his  flattery  and  his  wit,  gravely  bows  to 
the  ladies  in  their  black  mantillas  as  they  pass  on 
their  way  to  church.  And  one  morning,  as  I  wan- 
dered in  the  dirty  Calle  de  la  Neveria,  but  a  step 
from  the  Plaza  Mayor,  I  came  upon  this  sign  over 
the  door  of  a  barber-shop:  Felipe,  Practicante 
EN  CiRUJiA — for  all  the  world  Don  Pablo's  father, 
barber  and  surgeon  in  one ! 

And  so  I  always  think  of  Segovia  as  Don  Pablo's 
town  (the  French  translation  of  Quevedo's  work 
bears  as  its  title  "Don  Pablo  de  Segovie"),  and  see 
in  its  streets  the  backgrounds  of  Daniel  Vierge's 
unequalled  drawings,  to  my  mind  the  greatest  mas- 
terpieces of  modern  illustration. 

Segovia  has  further  claims  to  artistic  laurels. 
Its  craggy  hill-slopes,  its  austere  buildings,  its  far- 
reaching  horizons  have  tempted  the  greatest  modern 
Spanish  painter,  Ignacio  Zuloaga,  to  leave  his  na- 
tive town  Eibar  and  take  up  his  residence  in  it.  For 
years  he  wandered  over  the  rugged  face  of  Spain  in 
quest  of  the  picturesque,  then  made  up  his  mind 
that,  of  all  the  Spanish  cities,  matchless  Segovia 

[180] 


TWO  IIILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

best  suited  his  aesthetic  Hking.  There  he  maintains 
two  studios,  one  being  the  Canonjia,  a  nol)lc  casa 
with  great  walls  such  as  I  have  before  described  and 
windows  that  overlook  the  endless  plains  of  Old 
Castile;  the  other  the  nave  of  the  primitive  church 
of  San  Juan  de  los  Caballeros,  an  old  Romanesque 
structure  that  has  been  abandoned  for  more  than 
three  hundred  years. 

These  early  Romanesque  churches  of  Segovia  are 
of  a  particularly  pure  and  beautiful  t^-pe.  During 
the  wars  against  the  Moors,  Segovia  changed  hands 
several  times,  and  when  the  infidels  were  finally 
driven  from  the  city,  and  retired  to  their  fastnesses 
at  Toledo,  the  Christians  who  crowded  into  Segovia 
after  them,  fired  with  religious  zeal,  began  to  con- 
struct a  number  of  parochial  churches  in  the  style 
then  prevalent,  the  purest  Romanesque.  These 
churches  thus  mark  the  period  of  the  town's  greatest 
prosperity  and  coincide  in  date  with  the  building  of 
its  palaces  and  its  Alcazar,  a  perfect  type  of  feudal 
castle.  Later,  when  the  INIoors  were  driven  from 
Toledo  and  retreated  still  farther  south,  Segovia 
ceased  to  be  important  as  a  frontier  town,  and  since 
then  its  churches,  except  tliose  in  its  more  populous 

[181] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

districts,  have  sunk  more  and  more  into  disrepair, 
have  been  shorn  one  by  one  of  their  inestimable 
treasures,  until  now  they  remain  mere  empty  shells 
from  which  tlie  pearls  have  been  stolen.  But  these 
abandoned  churches,  some  quite  intact,  others  more 
or  less  fallen  to  decay  and  ruin,  still  decorate  the 
squares  and  street-corners,  where  their  cloisterlike 
arcades,  their  well-proportioned  bell-towers,  and  their 
airy  loggias  borne  aloft  on  slender  colonnades,  add 
the  key-notes  to  the  general  picturesqueness  of  the 

city. 

But,  if  you  wish  to  obtain  a  true  idea  of  the  pecu- 
har  beauty  of  this  grand  old  Castilian  burg,  you 
should  do  as  we  did  one  sunny  Sunday  afternoon — 
walk  around  it.  We  descended  from  the  Azoquejo 
to  the  faubourg  of  San  Lorenzo;  then  went  on  past 
the  Santa  Cruz  and  along  the  steep  road  that  de- 
scends from  the  Puerta  da  San  Cibrian  to  the  Ala- 
meda, which  half-abandoned  promenade,  bordering 
the  banks  of  the  gurghng  Eresma,  is  one  of  the  most 
romantic  pleasaunces  that  I  know.  Its  lonehness, 
its  grass-grown  walks  shaded  by  rows  of  venerable 
trees,  stimulate  the  imagination  and  make  of  it  a 
sort  of  poet's  retreat  or  lovers'  paradise.     And,  be- 

[182] 


TWO  HILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD  CASTILE 

sides  this  sylvan  charm,  it  commands  a  number  of 
striking  views  of  the  city  that  piles  high  above  it, 
girt  by  its  mighty  walls  and  bartizaned  towers,  cut 


The  Alcdzar  Bristling  with  Barbacan  and  Battlement 

with  gates  and  punctuated  here  and  there  with  the 
belfries  of  its  churches. 

Beyond  the   Alameda,    on   a   hill,  perched   high 
amid   vine   arbors    and    trelHsses,    stands   the   an- 

[183] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

cient  monastery  of  El  Parral,  at  one  time  known 
as  "a  terrestrial  paradise,"  now  but  a  ruin  set  in 
ruinous  gardens.  From  here  on  the  road  becomes 
more  and  more  picturesque.  Beyond  the  Moneda, 
the  only  mint  in  Spain  until  a  hundred  years 
ago,  you  come  upon  the  highway  that  descends 
precipitously  from  the  castellated  gateway  of  San- 
tiago, a  road  enlivened  with  gypsy  women,  with 
men  in  faded  smock-frocks  goading  cream-colored 
oxen,  with  deformed  and  tattered  beggars  and  all 
the  riff-raff  that  gathers  in  the  dust  of  Spanish  post- 
roads.  Above  the  evil-smelling  lanes  of  San  Mar- 
cos the  church  of  Vera  Cruz  stands  alone,  twelve- 
sided,  built  by  the  Templars  in  imitation  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre,  upon  their  return  from  the  Holy  Wars. 
Farther  down  the  river  looms  the  sinister  Pena  Gra- 
jira  or  Crow's  Cliff,  from  whose  top  criminals  used 
to  be  flung  to  death. 

It  is  from  this  point  that,  as  you  look  back,  you 
realize  the  justice  of  the  comparison  that  likens 
Segovia  to  a  ship  sailing  toward  the  setting  sun,  as, 
behind  a  swinging  bend  of  the  Eresma,  it  towers 
high  above  the  two  rivers  that  have  cleft  it  from  the 
surrounding  plateaux,  its  Alcazar,  bristling  with  bar- 

[184] 


•^ 


><^ 


.\  i 


!    5J' 


••"\ 


TA«  CUy  Piles  Up  Grandly  from  This  Side,  too" 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

bacan  and  battlement,  looming  like  the  giant  fore- 
castle of  some  mediaeval  galleon  sailing  the  southern 
seas. 

It  was  growing  late  in  the  afternoon  as  we  re- 
turned by  the  other  side  of  the  city  up  the  narrow 
valley  of  the  Clamores,  deeply  embedded  between 
wooded  hills.  Had  you  been  spending  July  as  we 
had  been,  on  the  sun-baked  plains  of  Old  Castile — 
treeless,  shadeless,  seared  and  scorched — you  would 
have  felt  as  we  did  that  Sunday  afternoon  as  we 
breathed  the  moisture-laden  air  and  heard  the  wind 
sighing  in  the  poplar  leaves  overhead  and  looked 
into  the  shadows  where  children  played  among  the 
willows.  The  city  piles  up  grandly  from  this  side 
too  with  its  walls  and  towers,  its  tiled  roofs  and 
buttressed  garden-walls,  culminating  in  the  fretted 
mass  of  the  cathedral  whose  west  front  seemed 
ablaze  in  the  sunset. 

Down  among  the  trees  by  the  river  a  little  fete 
was  in  progress.  In  one  corner,  near  a  refresh- 
ment booth,  the  centre  of  an  admiring  crowd  of 
peasants,  stood  two  musicians  of  a  bygone  day,  a 
drummer  and  a  piper,  belted  with  Jajas  and  clothed 
in  sheepskins.     Anything  more  weird  or  primitive 

[186] 


TWO  HILL-TOWNS  OF  OLD   CASTILE 

than  the  hit  and  quaver  of  their  music — strange 
and  Oriental  as  one  might  hear  in  Tunis  or  in  Tan- 
gier— could  scarcely  be  imagined,  nor  did  this  sur- 
prise me,  for  almost  all  the  Spanish  melodies  that 
I  have  heard  among  the  people — their  dances,  their 
folk-songs,  and  their  love-songs  as  well — are  im- 
pregnated with  this  same  relic  of  the  Moors.  Even 
in  Seville  Cathedral,  at  the  solemn  moment  of  the 
elevation  of  the  host,  I  detected  the  same  strange 
note  in  the  improvisations  of  the  master  who  evolves 
such  wondrous  harmonies  from  his  pealing  organ. 

As  we  came  into  the  jpaseo  upon  our  return  to  the 
city  we  found  a  military  band  playing,  and,  tired 
with  our  long  stroll,  we  were  well  content  to  sit  down 
and  amuse  ourselves  by  watching  the  citizens  and 
their  Sunday  raiment.  The  men  talked  over  their 
affairs;  the  w^omen  sat  gossiping  in  groups,  their 
daughters  glancing  askance  at  the  well-groomed 
cadets  of  the  artillery  school;  the  children  rolling 
hoops  or  playing  ^'toroj^'  mounted  on  each  other's 
shoulders  as  picador,  charging  with  handerilla  or 
giving  the  coup  de  grace  as  espada  to  the  poor  little 
bull-boy,  just  as  Goya  depicted  them  years  ago  in 
his  tapestries  in  the  Escorial. 

[187] 


VIII 
SOME  SPANISH   GARDENS 


SOME  SPANISH  GARDENS 


THE  GAKDENS  OF  SOUTHERN  SPAIN 

HOW  comparatively  little  we  know,  in  Amer- 
ica, of  the  charm  of  the  Spanish  garden  I 
Yet  the  exuberant  quintas  of  Valencia,  the 
gay  tiled  courts  and  fountains  of  Seville,  the  hang- 
ing gardens  of  the  Alhambra,  the  romantic  and 
melancholy  groves  of  Aranjuez,  and  the  majestic 
vistas  of  La  Granja  might  well  serve  as  models  for 
the  settings  of  our  country  homes  in  Florida  or  in 
California  or  in  the  growing  Southwest,  so  Hispanic 
both  in  color  and  in  character. 

The  gardens  of  Spain,  with  a  few  notable  excep- 
tions, were  not  laid  out  on  the  grand  scale  of  those 
of  the  Italian  villas  near  Rome  nor  of  the  more  mag- 
nificent of  the  French  chateaux,  but  they  have  a 
romantic  flavor  of  their  own  and  a  charm  that  is 
quite  unlike  that  of  any  other  European  gardens — 
a  charm  that,  in  no  small  measure,  can  be  directly 
traced  to  the  influence  of  the  Moorish  occupation. 

This  Moorish  influence  is  particularly  apparent 

[191] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

in  the  gardens  of  southern  Spain  (and  they,  after 
all,  are  the  most  characteristic)  where  the  vegetation 
is  semitropic  in  character,  and  where  palms  and 
myrtles  and  thickets  of  citron  and  orange-trees  give 
a  truly  African  quality  to  the  landscape.  Perhaps 
as  characteristic  as  any  of  these  southern  gardens 
are  the  Jardines  del  Alcazar  in  Seville. 

Of  the  original  Alcazar,  a  huge  fortress  that 
formed  the  main  military  bulwark  of  the  city,  little 
or  nothing  remains.  It  had  been  built  in  the  twelfth 
century  by  the  Sultan  Abu  Yakub  Yusuf,  the  same 
enlightened  monarch  who  had  caused  the  great 
mosque  to  be  erected,  of  which  the  Court  of  Oranges 
and  the  world-famed  Giralda  Tower  alone  remain. 
Upon  the  re-conquest  of  Seville  by  the  Christians, 
the  Alcazar  was  almost  entirely  destroyed  and  was 
rebuilt  by  the  Spanish  sovereigns  of  the  fourteenth 
century  and  their  successors.  Their  architects, 
however,  were  either  Morescoes  or  Spaniards  in- 
spired by  the  Mudejar  architecture  that  they  saw 
about  them,  this  influence  still  being  plainly  seen  in 
the  diapered  wall  panels,  the  cusped  arches  and 
ajimez  windows  of  the  Patio  de  las  Doncellas  that 
was  built  as  late  as  the  reign  of  Charles  V. 

[192] 


SOME  SPANISH  GARDENS 


The  Alcazar  gardens,  as  we  see  them  to-day,  were 
laid  out  under  this  same  Emperor,  and  they  exhibit 


:1 


Gardens  0/  the  Alcdzar,  Seville 

the  same  tendency  to  borrow  ideas  from  the  Moors, 
so  that,  in  them,  we  see  Mudejar  fountains  fraterniz- 

[193] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

ing  with  Churrigueresque  archways  and  tiled  Moor- 
ish seats  built  along  walls  that  might  have  been  de- 
signed by  Berruguete. 

These  gardens  are  usually  entered  through  the 
long,  dark,  corridor-like  apeadero,  from  which  you 
emerge  with  blinking  eyes  into  a  dazzling  white 
courtyard  with  a  wealth  of  flowers  and  potted  plants 
ranged  along  its  balustrades.  From  this  court  you 
descend  a  few  steps,  revetted  like  the  seats  that  ad- 
join them,  with  beautiful  azulejos  or  tiles.  Hence,  a 
cave-like  entrance  admits  you  to  the  vaulted  Banos, 
where,  according  to  tradition,  Maria  de  Padilla  used 
to  bathe  while  her  admirers  gallantly  drank  the 
water  she  had  used  for  her  ablutions. 

Opposite  these  baths,  an  archway  leads  to  the 
outer  gardens  which  are  a  perfect  riot  of  light  and 
color.  They  are  laid  out  in  a  series  of  rectangular 
compartments  enclosed  by  clipped  hedges  and 
planted  with  patterns  in  box,  and  further  embel- 
lished with  a  profusion  of  flowering  shrubs  and 
plants:  laurels,  azaleas,  jessamine,  and  roses.  At 
the  intersections  of  the  paths,  the  corners  have  been 
cut  off  so  as  to  form  octagons  in  which  are  placed 
fountains  set  on  octagonal  bases  made  of  tiles,  mostly 

[194  ] 


Pavilion  of  Charles  V,  Alcazar  Gardens,  Seville 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

blue  and  white  but  with  occasional  dashes  of  a  rich 
yellow.  In  a  far  corner  of  the  garden,  stands  a  little 
colonnaded  pavilion  or  pleasure-house,  erected  by 
Charles  V,  also  in  the  Moorish  style — a  gem  of  an 
edifice  whose  walls  as  well  as  the  seats  that  surround 
it,  are  all  faced  up  with  brilliant  tiles.  Behind  it, 
is  a  mesquita  or  little  mosque,  whose  image  is  re- 
flected in  a  deep  blue  pool  of  water,  so  that,  in  this 
end  of  the  garden,  at  least,  one  would  fancy  oneself 
in  Tunis  or  in  Fez  or  in  some  villa  in  the  outskirts 
of  Tangier. 

But  the  walls  that  surround  these  gardens  are 
truly  Spanish,  topped  as  they  are  with  fantastic 
copings  and  enlivened  with  gateways  of  capricious 
design,  supported  by  baroque  buttresses  and  sur- 
mounted by  broken  pediments  capped  with  obelisks 
and  vases.  Along  their  northern  side,  the  gardens 
are  bordered  by  the  varied  structures  of  the  Alcazar 
itself,  while  along  their  eastern  end  they  are  shut 
in  by  highly  colored  walls,  finished  with  stalactic 
rustica  and  adorned  with  statued  niches,  with  grot- 
toes, and  with  arcades  whose  white  arches  gleam 
dazzlingly  against  the  lapis-colored  sky. 

Palm-trees  of  great  height  and  luxuriance,  varied 

[  196  ] 


SOME   SPANISH   GARDENS 

with  an  occasional  cedar  of  Lebanon  or  some  other 
dark  evergreen,  project  the  only  bits  of  shadow  upon 
its  glittering  pathways  so  that  the  beholder,  on  a 
sunny  day,  is  struck  with  an  overpowering  sense  of 
brilliancy  and  splendor,  of  color  and  perfume  and 
rich  southern  exuberance. 

This  same  sense  of  tropic  brilliancy  is  character- 
istic of  the  patios  for  which  Seville  has  long  been 
famous.  They  too  are  a  heritage  from  the  Moors, 
with  their  tiles  and  their  fountains,  tlieir  arcades 
and  bright-colored  tondos  or  awnings  to  protect 
them  from  the  sun. 

Every  Spanish  city  has  its  favorite  Alameda  or 
Paseo.  Seville  is  no  exception  to  this  rule  and  the 
Paseo  de  las  Delicias  that  leads  to  the  Parque 
Maria-Luisa  is  a  typical  example  of  these  shaded 
promenades,  planted  with  sycamores  or  lindens, 
under  whose  cool  vaults  the  people  love  to  saunter 
at  ease  and  take  the  air  on  the  long  summer  evenings. 
But  the  most  beautiful  of  these  Alamedas  that  I 
know  is  the  one  tJiat  leads  from  Granada  up  through 
the  Valle  de  la  Assabica  to  the  gates  of  tlie  Alliam- 
bra.     It  is  planted  with  elms  brought  from  England 

[  197  ]  • 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

by  the  Duke  of  Wellington  in  1812 — trees  that  now, 
centenarians,  rear  their  mighty  boles  aloft  like  the 
pillars  of  some  vast  cathedral,  while  tlieir  branches, 
meeting  high  aloft,  intertwine  to  form  a  verdant  roof, 
impenetrable  even  at  midday,  that  excludes  the 
rays  of  the  summer  sun  and  breaks  the  winds,  leav- 
ing the  floor  of  the  valley  cool,  still,  and  shadowy. 
Three  fountains  decorate  its  leafy  aisles  that  are 
constantly  murmuring  with  the  sound  of  running 
water  that  gushes  from  countless  springs  in  the 
hillside,  as  well  as  from  the  Acequia  del  Rey  that 
brings  them  down  from  the  snows  of  the  Sierras 
above  the  Generalife.  To  add  to  the  charm  of  this 
mystic  grove,  the  air  is  filled  with  the  songs  of  night- 
ingales that,  attracted  by  the  cool  shadows  and  the 
calm  atmosphere,  nest  by  hundreds  in  its  dense 
fohage. 

These  beautiful  groves  lead  us,  at  last,  to  the 
Moorish  Palace  of  the  Alhambra,  which  contains 
three  small  gardens  that  are  usually  neglected  by 
the  tourist  in  his  interest  in  the  palace  itself.  Two 
of  them  are  really  only  courtyards  laid  out  with  gar- 
den features,  but  even  to  these  the  designers  have 
been  able  to  impart  a  singular  charm  and  show  how 

[198] 


SOME  SPANISH   GARDENS 

much  can  be  done  with  a  very-  small  space.  The 
best  kno^\^l  of  these  is  the  Garden  of  Linderaja  in 
the  very  shadow  of  the  Peinador  de  la  Reina.  From 
its  centre  rises  the  exquisite  alabaster  fountain 
whose  praises  have  been  sung  by  Washington  Irving 
in  his  '*Alhambra."  About  it,  the  symmetrical 
beds  are  confined  by  thick  hedges  of  box  and  shaded 
by  orange-trees  and  cypresses,  while  from  above, 
between  the  high  protecting  walls,  falls  a  powdery^ 
sifted  light  like  tliat  from  a  studio  skylight,  that 
lends  to  this  little  garden  a  very  pecuhar  charm. 

The  second  of  these  Alhambra  gardens,  known  as 
the  Jardin  del  Cuarto  de  Machuca,  lies  at  the  west- 
ern end  of  the  palace.  It  also  is  laid  out  in  geometric 
patterns  with  clipped  hedges  and  rose  arbors  while, 
through  breaks  in  its  massive  walls  you  catch 
glimpses  of  the  Albaicin  opposite,  with  its  church 
towers  silhouetted  against  the  sky  and  its  red-tiled 
roofs  descending  the  hill,  pell-mell,  in  picturesque 
confusion,  to  the  gorge  worn  by  the  Darro  far  down 
beneath  you. 

But  it  is  the  third  garden,  the  Jardin  de  los  Adar- 
ves,  or  Garden  of  the  Ramparts,  that  is  the  most 
characteristic  and  the  most  beautiful  of  the  three. 
As  its  name  implies,  it  lies  imbedded  within  tlie  very 

[  199  ] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

walls  of  the  old  Moorish  stronghold  in  the  shadow 
of  tlie  Alcazaba  or  keep  of  the  fortress.  But  even 
within  these  restricted  confines  it  manages  to  con- 
tain a  world  of  pretty  features:  fountains  enclosed 
in  box-hedges;  pathways  made  of  little  rounded 
rocks;  roses  of  Castille  clambering  in  profusion 
over  trellises  of  iron,  whose  arches  frame  fascinating 
views  of  the  city,  and  the  Vega  lying  far  below  with 
the  mountains  of  Elvira  and  the  Albaicin  rising 
opposite. 

It  is  to  the  choice  of  such  spots  upon  the  heights 
that  the  Granada  gardens  owe  a  large  portion  of 
their  pecuHar  charm.  For  in  them,  shut  off  from 
the  world  and  embowered  in  flowers,  you  feel  an 
intimate  sohtude,  a  quiet  sense  of  retirement  as 
if  you  were  secluded  in  a  well-furnished  room,  yet 
when  you  look  out  of  your  window,  so  to  speak, 
through  an  opening  in  the  wall,  cunningly  devised 
so  as  to  command  a  certain  prospect,  you  have  the 
feeling  that  all  the  world  Hes  spread  out  at  your  feet 
for  you  to  gaze  upon  and  wonder  at,  while  to  your 
ear  there  mounts  the  creak  of  a  cartwheel,  the  bark 
of  a  dog,  or  the  cries  of  children  in  the  Albaicin  to 
stimulate  your  imagination. 

And  it  is  at  night  that  the  magic  of  these  gardens 

[200  ] 


—     — •  Cr  C  PL  rt»T\o 


The  Garden  of  Lindcraja,  Alhainhra 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

is  most  potent.  This  Garden  of  the  Ramparts  will 
always  remain  connected  in  my  mind  with  a  certain 
enchanted  night  in  May,  when,  at  his  invitation, 
we  met  the  governor  of  the  Alhambra  and  another 
friend  of  ours  to  make  a  visit  to  the  towers  by 
moonlight.  We  crossed  the  Plaza  de  los  Aljibes  to 
the  Alcazaba  which  the  conservador  opened  with  a 
ponderous  key.  As  we  entered  the  Garden  of  the 
Ramparts  we  found  its  rose  arbors  and  thickets  of 
myrtle  and  hornbeam  tipped  with  silver,  while  in 
tliem  the  nightingales  sang  exultantly.  Almost  on 
tip-toe,  so  as  not  to  break  the  spell,  we  crossed  it 
and  clambered  up  steep  steps  of  the  Torre  de  la 
Vela,  the  highest  of  all  the  Alhambra  towers,  until  we 
reached  its  roof-terrace,  where  we  found  that  chairs 
had  been  set  out  for  our  reception  and  cushions  to 
lean  upon  had  been  disposed  along  the  parapets. 

The  roses  in  the  gardens  down  below  and  the 
flowers  placed  in  pots  along  the  castle  walls,  seemed 
to  exhale  a  stronger  perfume  than  by  day.  Far 
beneath  us  lay  the  city,  gleaming  with  its  countless 
lights,  the  streets  about  the  Puerta  Real  shedding 
forth  a  mellow  glow.  Opposite  us  rose  the  Al- 
baicin,  with  scattered  lights  shining  upon  its  pale 

[202  ] 


SOME   SPANISH   GARDENS 

white  walls — a  fairy  city  bathed  in  moonhght  en- 
chantment, while  from  its  caves  and  houses  the 
faint  click  of  castanets  and  the  strumming  of  guitars 
reached  our  ears  and  told  us  that  the  g^^psies  were 
dancing. 

Above  our  heads  rose  the  Espadana,  a  turret  con- 
taining a  great  bell  that  tolls  every  fifteen  minutes 
throughout  the  night  and  regulates  the  opening  and 
shutting  of  the  sluices,  dating  from  the  days  of  the 
Moors,  that  irrigate  the  farms  of  the  Vega.  A 
young  girl  rang  this  bell,  a  girl  we  had  passed  upon 
the  steps.  No  one  else  lived  in  the  tower  or  any- 
where near  it,  and  over  its  silent  terrace  there  lay  a 
magic  spell. 

The  Alhambra  hung  like  an  enchanted  palace 
against  the  hills,  its  silver  towers  restored  by  the 
pale  moon's  rays  to  all  their  pristine  beauty, 

"Forteresse,  aux  creneaux  festonnes  et  croulans 
Ou  Ton  entend  la  nuit  de  magiques  syllabes." 

The  nightingales  trilled  their  richest  carols;  the  lights 
on  the  Albaicin  went  out  one  by  one,  and  the  air 
grew  more  ethereal,   quieter  and  cooler,   until  one 

[203] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

seemed  to  forget  the  body  and  live  in  a  beatific 
state,  hung  between  earth  and  sky  in  the  spell  of 
some  strange  enchantment. 

There  are  a  number  of  other  gardens  in  and  around 
Granada  that  deserve  the  attention  of  the  traveller. 
There  are,  for  example,  those  of  the  Carmen  de 
Arratia  and  the  Villa  de  los  Martires,  situated  on 
top  of  the  Monte  Mauror.  The  latter  consists  of 
three  gardens  placed  one  above  the  other.  The 
highest  garden  is  wedged  between  the  house  and  the 
hillside,  and  is  embellished  with  a  grotto  to  be  used 
on  hot  days  and  a  lake  in  which  is  set  a  rocky 
wooded  island.  The  middle  gardens  are  enclosed 
by  walls  of  roses  and  planted  with  palm-trees  ranged 
round  a  circular  basin,  while  the  old-fashioned  lower 
garden  is  surrounded  with  dark,  dense  hedges,  clipped 
close,  against  which  a  profusion  of  brilliant  flowers 
detach  themselves  like  fireworks  against  a  midnight 
sky. 

Perched  high  above  the  Alhambra,  clinging  to  a 
spur  of  the  Cerro  del  Sol,  hangs  the  Djennat-al-'Arif 
(Garden  of  'Arif),  corrupted  into  the  word  Generalife, 
by  which  name  this  summer  home  of  the  Moorish 
sultans  is  known. 

[204] 


>^i^-^ 


-  <.  •* 


■K  - 


Upper  Garden  of  the  Generalije,  Granada 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

To  me  the  Generalife  is  a  palace  of  enchantment, 
the  most  beautiful  of  the  gardens  of  southern  Spain. 
Restricted  in  area,  overcrowded  with  features,  some- 
what confused  in  plan,  it  nevertheless  possesses  a 
potent  fascination  that  makes  it  a  delight  to  the 
lover  of  gardens. 

From  the  entrance  one  steps  at  once  into  the  main 
court,  the  beautiful  Patio  de  la  Acequia,  traversed 
in  its  entire  length  by  the  Alhambra  aqueduct,  that 
throws  aloft  a  multitude  of  sprays  and  jets  to  nour- 
ish the  myrtle  hedges  and  orange-trees  of  the  court. 
This  aqueduct,  built  by  the  Moors,  brings  the 
water  from  the  eternal  snows  of  the  Sierras  to  cool 
and  freshen  the  Generalife  Gardens;  then  to  play  in 
fountains  and  in  runlets  through  the  courts  of  the 
Alhambra  and  sparkle  in  its  gardens,  and  at  last  to 
course  merrily  down  the  hill-slopes  through  the 
beautiful  groves  that  I  have  described  bordering  the 
Alameda  of  the  Assabica.  And  even  then  its  mis- 
sion is  not  fully  completed,  for  it  still  flows  on  to 
fill  the  cisterns  of  the  city  and  water  the  rich  farms 
of  the  Vega. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  Patio  de  la  Acequia  rises  the 
palace  itself,  now,  alas,  much  fallen  to  decay  and 

[206] 


SOME  SPANISH  GARDENS 

spoiled  by  tasteless  restorations.  The  gardens,  liow- 
ever,  have  preserved  their  Moorish  aspect  to  a  re- 
markable degree.  They  lie  both  to  the  east  and 
west  of  the  palace,  that  to  the  west  being  })ut  a 
broad  terrace,  planted  with  venerable  yew-trees, 
that  adjoins  what  used  to  be  the  main  entrance  to 
the  villa. 

The  principal  gardens  lie  above  the  main  court  to 
the  eastward.  They  are  laid  out  in  terraces  one 
above  another,  and  becoming  smaller  and  smaller  as 
they  ascend  the  hill.  Each  terrace  is  enlivened  with 
busts  or  grottoes,  with  arbors  or  clipped  hedges  or 
fountains.  They  are  connected  with  each  other  by 
flights  of  steps  divided  into  sections  by  platforms, 
on  each  of  which  a  fountain  plays,  while  down  the 
balustrades,  in  channels  made  of  inverted  tiles, 
course  little  streams  of  water  that  gurgle  pleasantly 
and  impart  a  delightful  sense  of  coolness  to  the  steep 
ascent.  Perched  on  the  topmost  terrace  stands  a 
mirador  or  belvedere,  that  commands  a  far-reaching 
panorama  of  the  Alhambra,  with  its  many  towers, 
of  the  City  of  Granada  and  its  surrounding  hills  and 
mountains. 

These  Generalife  Gardens,  hung  high  upon  their 

[207] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

hillside,  cool,  fanned  by  the  Sierra  breezes,  still  con- 
vey to  us  a  perfect  picture  of  Moorish  life — a  life 
filled  with  a  love  for  small  things,  but  highly  finished 
and  exquisitely  wrought;  a  life  filled  with  intellectual 
quietude  and  a  love  for  calm  retreats  where  one 
might  meditate,  removed  from  the  world,  yet  look- 
ing out  over  wide  prospects  and  great  expanses  of 
varied  landscape. 

All  these  qualities  I  felt  as  I  sketched  in  these  de- 
lightful gardens.  In  one  court  played  beside  me  an 
alabaster  fountain  standing  in  a  basin  filled  with 
goldfish ;  in  another,  walls  of  Bankshire  roses  hemmed 
me  in,  their  beauty  reflected  in  the  turquoise  waters 
of  a  quiet  pool;  white  butterflies  flitted  from  flower 
to  flower,  and  the  sound  of  running  water  was  con- 
stantly in  my  ear,  lulling  the  senses  by  their  quiet 
murmuring.  Aside  from  this,  no  other  sound  broke 
the  utter  silence,  save  once  in  a  while  the  sound  of 
the  gardener's  foot  crunching  the  gravel  walk,  or  the 
voice  of  a  rare  visitor,  or,  as  on  Sunday,  when  the 
bells  of  the  city  would  wake  to  life  and  the  chorus 
of  their  voices  would  rise  to  my  ears,  at  first  faint, 
then  swelling  deep  and  sonorous  to  a  mighty  diapa- 
son, then  dying  down  again,  fainter  and  fainter,  till 

[208] 


SOME   SPANISH   GARDENS 

the  jangle  of  a   tardy  bell  would  sound   the  final 
note.  .  .  . 

There  are  many  Spanish  gardens  In  the  south  that 
I  might  mention,  but  they  all  bear  at  least  a  family 
likeness  to  those  already  described. 


[209] 


II 

ARANJUEZ  AND  LA  GRANJA 

A  S  one  goes  north  in  Spain,  however,  the  aspect 
/\  of  the  country  changes,  and  with  it  the 
-/  ^  character  of  the  gardens.  The  landscape 
becomes  bleak  and  arid.  North  of  Cordova  the 
Moor  left  little  trace  of  his  stay,  and  the  gardens  of 
the  northern  provinces  laid  out  under  the  Hapsburg 
or  the  Bourbon  kings,  show  no  Moorish  influence. 
The  two  most  important  of  these  are  Aranjuez  and 
La  Granja. 

Aranjuez  lies  south  of  Madrid  in  the  rocky  valley 
of  the  Tagus.  After  traversing  the  sun-baked  pla- 
teaux of  Castile,  dry  and  denuded  of  all  vegetation, 
save  where  some  little  watercourse  gives  sustenance 
to  a  few  stunted  trees  and  shrubs,  it  is  indeed  a 
surprising  transition  to  alight  from  the  local  train 
and  penetrate  the  deep  bosky  groves  and  densely 
wooded  parks  of  Aranjuez. 

A  series  of  bends  in  the  Tagus  makes  this  verdure 

[210] 


SOME  SPANISH  GARDENS 

possible.  In  one  of  these  bends  lies  an  island,  cut 
off  from  its  surroundings  by  a  little  stream,  la  Ilia, 
that  is  controlled  by  a  jyresa  or  weir.  This  island 
has  been  occupied  for  centuries,  first,  by  a  convent 
of  the  Order  of  Santiago,  then  by  a  favorite  summer 
abode  of  Isabella  the  CathoHc,  and  lastly  by  the 
present  palace  of  the  Ilapsburg  Kings,  whose  impress 
is  plainly  written  on  the  romantic  Garden  of  the 
Island,  sombre  as  the  thoughts  of  the  pietistic 
Philip  II,  who  built  the  Escorial;  mysterious  and 
gallant  as  the  pleasures  of  Philip  IV. 

The  trees  that  shade  its  leafy  aisles  are  for  the 
most  part  those  of  the  northern  climes — poplars, 
lindens,  oaks,  and  elms — ^brought  over  from  England 
by  Philip's  wife.  Queen  Mary,  but,  in  this  southern 
climate,  growTi  to  prodigious  size,  with  their  roots 
tapping  the  waters  of  the  Tagus.  The  broad  Av- 
enue of  the  Catholic  Kings,  bordered  by  a  quadruple 
row  of  giant  plane-trees,  skirts  the  river  itself  and 
leads  into  the  depths  of  this  mysterious  Jardin  de 
la  Isla,  where  fountain  after  fountain,  dedicated  to 
Venus,  to  Neptune,  to  Jupiter,  and  otlier  gods  and 
goddesses  and  decorated  with  their  statues,  fling  their 
jets  of  water  high  into  the  air,  or  trickle  streamlets 

[^211] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

from  basin  to  basin  adorned  with  sculptured  orna- 
ment. The  tinkhng  of  these  fountains,  the  innu- 
merable dim  vistas,  the  half  light — one  might  almost 
say  the  obscurity — of  these  dark  groves,  even  at  mid- 
day, the  songs  of  the  nightingales  that  nest  by  hun- 
dreds in  their  leafy  arches,  induce,  as  a  Spanish 
author  puts  it,  an  '^ agradable  melancoUa,"  or  agree- 
able melancholy,  that  has  inspired  many  a  Spanish 
poet,  hke  Calderon  or  Garcilasso,  to  sing  its  praises, 
and  that  induced  Schiller  to  choose  it  as  the  scene 
of  his  ''Don  Carlos." 

The  other  gardens  of  Aranjuez  are  less  romantic. 
The  Jardin  de  las  Estatuas  dates  also  from  the  time 
of  Philip  IV,  but  the  other  gardens  were  laid  out  at 
a  much  later  period  under  the  Bourbons  and  are  in 
accord  with  the  taste  of  the  great  palace  itself  that 
vaguely  recalls  Versailles  or  Marly.  Immediately 
about  the  palace  are  formal  gardens  and  parterres 
laid  out  with  patterns  in  broderick  and  decorated 
with  numerous  fountains  and  statues.  Two  of  the 
best  of  these  fountains,  the  Fuente  de  las  Conchas 
and  the  Fuente  de  los  Tritones  (a  painting  of  which 
by  Velasquez  adorns  the  Prado),  were  taken  away 
from  Aranjuez  about  fifty  years  ago  and  set  up  in 

[212] 


The  Fountain  of  Apollo,  Aranjuez 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

the  Royal  Palace  Gardens  in  Madrid,  where  they 
are  now  to  be  seen. 

The  fountains  that  have  taken  their  places  are 
bad,  and  for  better  taste  one  must  look  elsewhere 
and  walk  over  to  the  Jardin  del  Principe,  that  lies 
hemmed  in  between  the  Tagus  and  the  Calle  de  la 
Reina,  a  superb  avenue  of  mighty  trees  that  remains 
quite  as  Velasquez  painted  it,  when  it  sat  to  him 
for  its  portrait  centuries  ago. 

The  Prince's  Garden  contains  the  Casa  del  Labra- 
dor, that  bears  the  same  relation  to  the  palace  that 
the  Petit  Trianon  does  to  Versailles.  This  so-called 
*' Laborer's  Cottage"  is  cold  and  formal  in  design 
and  character,  its  rooms  being  decorated  with  elabo- 
rate paintings  and  marble  mosaics,  hung  with  silk 
brocades  and  crystal  chandeliers  and  furnished 
with  malachite  tables  and  gilded  chairs,  the  gifts 
of  Emperors  and  Kings. 

But  its  gardens  are  less  formal  in  character,  though 
they  too  have  their  vistas  and  avenues  and  foun- 
tains. In  their  general  aspect,  however,  they  resem- 
ble an  English  garden,  with  their  winding  pathways 
and  watercourses  in  which  stand  pavilions  of  fan- 
tastic shapes,  a  certain  portion  of  their  area  being 

[214  ] 


SOME  SPANISH  GARDENS 

also  reserved  for  the  cultivation  of  the  excellent 
fruits  and  vegetables — strawberries,  peaches,  aspar- 
agus, and  the  like — that  grace  the  royal  tables  as 
early  as  the  montli  of  January. 

The  Jardin  del  Principe  has  a  perimeter  of  nearly 
four  miles,  and  much  of  it  borders  the  swift-running 
Tagus,  whose  eddying  waters  are  confined  by  stone 
embankments  decorated  with  pots  of  flowers. 

If  the  Gardens  of  Aranjuez  already  have  a  north- 
em  character  compared  to  those  of  southern  Spain, 
the  vast  Gardens  of  La  Granja,  surely  the  most 
extensive  and  elaborate  in  the  Iberian  peninsula, 
have  even  more  of  this  septentrional  character. 
For  they  are  situated  north  of  Madrid  in  a  fold  of 
the  Guadarrama  Mountains  nearly  four  thousand 
feet  above  the  sea.  They  were  laid  out  under 
Philip  V,  who  built  this  summer  palace  up  in  the 
mountains  that  is  still  the  oflScial  summer  residence 
of  the  Spanish  King.  Philip,  first  of  the  Spanish 
Bourbons,  was  naturally  thinking  of  Versailles  when 
he  built  it,  and  to  lay  out  the  gardens  he  called  in 
a  Frenchman,  Boutelet,  who  sought  to  impose  upon 
these  mountain  soUtudes  in  the  Guadarramas,  where 
the  granitic  hills  are  covered  with  dark  forests  of 

[215] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

conlferse,  all  the  artificialities  and  regularities  of 
the  Le  Notre  Garden  and  subject  nature  in  her  wild- 
est mood  to  the  rule  of  the  T-square  and  confine  her 
with  symmetrical  lawns  and  hedges  reflected  in 
circular  or  rectilinear  pools  and  basins. 

The  result,  if  not  congruous,  is  highly  impressive. 
For  in  no  other  gardens  that  I  know  can  one  have 
such  imposing  vistas  of  towering  mountain  forms 
at  the  end  of  noble  avenues,  nor  the  sight  of  such 
masses  of  water  disporting  themselves  in  stupendous 
fountains.  Here  at  La  Granja,  instead  of  the  la- 
borious pumping  systems  that  are  usually  neces- 
sary to  supply  fountains  with  water,  a  great  lake.  El 
Mar,  situated  high  above  the  gardens,  yet  fed  by 
numerous  mountain  springs  and  streamlets,  provides 
an  inexhaustible  water  supply,  and  the  pressure  is 
so  great  that  some  of  the  jets  rise  to  a  height  of  more 
than  a  hundred  feet  and  are  plainly  visible  from 
Segovia,  seven  miles  away. 

La  Granja  made  us  think  of  another  garden  far 
away  in  Parma,  with  its  pleached  alleys  and  parterres 
in  the  old  French  manner,  laid  out  also  by  the  same 
Elizabeth  Farnese  who  married  Philip  V,  and  held 
such  sway  over  her  weak  husband,  and  who  was 

[216] 


SOME  SPANISH  GARDENS 

responsible  for  so  many  of  the  costly  features  of 
these  La  Granja  gardens.  ' 

At  first  sight  many  of  these  features  will  undoubt- 
edly be  disappointing.  One  who  knows  Versailles 
or  Vaux-le-Vicomte  will  be  inclined  to  criticise  the 
ornate  and  overdone  Baths  of  Diana  or  the  Foun- 
tain of  the  Frogs,  so  obviously  copied  from  the  Basin 
of  Latona,  and  to  remain  somewhat  cold  before  the 
Parterre  de  la  Fama  or  the  New  Cascade,  with  their 
frigid  and  formal  atmosphere.  But  even  in  these 
fountains,  the  vast  water-supply  affords  a  possibil- 
ity for  superb  effects  that,  as  far  as  I  know,  are  un- 
surpassed anywhere,  and  I  defy  any  one  to  remain 
mimoved  when  first  he  beholds  the  fairy-like  per- 
spectives of  the  Old  Cascade  or  Carrera  de  Caballos, 
for  one  is  charmed  beyond  words  at  the  sight  of  these 
basins — grander  than  any  at  Versailles — mounting 
one  above  another,  filled  with  careering  horses  at- 
tended by  Nereids  and  Tritons  and  spouting  water 
from  their  nostrils  and  from  vases  and  sea-shells. 
Avenues  of  oaks  and  elms,  bordered  by  hedges  of 
hornbeam,  rise  with  the  terraced  fountains,  mount- 
ing higher  and  higher  toward  the  dark  blue  moun- 
tains that  girdle  this  terrestrial  paradise. 

[217] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

For  it  is  a  paradise,  this  Garden  of  La  Granja — 
a  garden  as  it  should  be,  fed  by  countless  springs, 
whose  crystal  waters  rush  down  its  rose-colored 
terraces,  and  through  its  murmuring  channels  in  a 
constant  flow. 

But  no  one  sits  to  watch  their  eddies.  White 
njTnphs,  petrified  in  graceful  attitudes,  are  its  sole 
inhabitants.  For  the  greater  part  of  the  year,  the 
royal  palace  sleeps  silent  in  the  sunshine,  and  the 
gardens  seem  lulled  to  slumber  as  if  enchanted  by  a 
magician's  wand. 

One  day — one  of  the  very  first  I  spent  there — I 
was  sketching  in  a  quiet  avenue,  when,  of  a  sudden, 
the  smiling  heavens  darkened,  the  mountains  grew 
black  and  inky  and,  again  as  if  by  magic,  the  trees 
shuddered,  and  the  smooth  faces  of  the  fountains 
quivered  into  innumerable  ripples.  Then  a  great 
blast  of  wind  came  rushing  down  from  the  Guadar- 
ramas;  the  trees  bowed  their  heads  and  bent  before 
its  breath;  the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents  into 
the  boiling  basins  and  the  mountains  resounded, 
echoed  and  re-echoed  with  peal  after  peal  of  thun- 
der. Then,  as  if  the  sorcerer's  anger  was  appeased, 
all   was   over  as   quickly   as   it  had   begun.     The 

[218] 


SOME  SPANISH   GARDENS 

shadows  lifted,  the  heavens  grew  serene  again,   the 
rain  ceased,  and  the  sun  burst  forth. 


The  Carrera  de  Caballos,  La  Granja 

But  the  air  remained  chilled  as  I  walked  up  to 
El  Mar,  and  looked  out  over  the  retaining  walls 
into  the  surrounding  pinewoods.     Little  patches  of 

[  219  ] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

snow  still  lay  In  the  hollows  under  the  trees,  and  it 
seemed  strange,  with  this  Alpine  picture  before  me 
and  the  chilly  wind  fanning  my  cheek,  to  fancy  my- 
self in  Spain  in  the  month  of  June. 

But  it  is  this  very  Alpine  quality  of  the  atmos- 
phere that  renders  La  Granja  so  agreeable  a  retreat 
from  the  burning  sunshine  of  Madrid,  and  for  this 
reason  it  remains  a  favorite  resort  of  the  Spanish 
King  and  court.  Alfonso  arrived  a  few  days  after 
we  had  come  to  see  his  royal  domain,  and  with  him 
came  his  brilliant  cavalry  who  took  up  their  quarters 
in  the  big  cuartel  or  barracks  just  behind  our  hotel. 
There  was  music  in  the  plaza  every  evening  and  each 
day  the  pink  bloom  from  the  chestnut-trees,  late  in 
this  altitude,  was  carefully  swept  up  in  great  piles 
and  carted  away.  Several  times  we  passed  the  little 
Infantas  in  the  gardens,  and  one  day  saw  the  King 
himself  come  out  of  the  palace  on  foot,  dressed  very 
democratically  in  a  straw  hat  and  outing  clothes, 
and  cross  the  square  to  the  stables  to  give  some  sugar 
to  his  favorites.  How  different  from  the  gloomy 
Spanish  pomp  of  other  days ! 


[220] 


IX 

IN   CATALONIA 


IN  CATALONIA 


THE  CATALANS  AND  THEIR  CHURCHES 

SITUATED  in  the  remote  northeastern  corner 
of  the  Iberian  Peninsula,  Catalonia  evolved, 
centuries  ago,  a  type,  a  language,  an  art  tradi- 
tion, and  a  general  culture  of  its  own.  Seated  astride 
the  Pyrenees  through  all  the  Middle  Ages,  it  drew 
most  of  its  laws,  and  to  a  large  extent  its  language, 
from  the  Rousillon,  for  the  Catalan  dialect,  even 
now,  is  much  more  closely  allied  to  the  old  Provencal 
than  it  is  to  the  Castilian.  In  politics  also,  the  Cat- 
alans have  held  aloof  from  the  remainder  of  Spain, 
and  of  late  years  this  political  cleavage  has  become 
so  pronounced  that  the  press  and  a  large  proportion 
of  the  people  are  boldly  asserting  their  right  to  in- 
dependence, and  the  King  of  Spain  has  not  shown 
himself  in  the  streets  of  Barcelona,  the  metropolis 
and  richest  city  in  his  kingdom,  for  many  and  many 
a  year. 

[223] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

This  separatist  movement  has  also  been  apparent 
in  the  art  of  the  country.  To-day,  the  Catalan 
painters,  with  Anglada  at  their  head,  look  askance 
upon  the  art  of  Zuloaga  and  the  traditions  of 
Madrid,  and  are  seeking  their  own  vigorous  modern 
formulae.  The  poets  are  expressing  themselves  in 
the  old  Catalan  tongue,  to  our  ears  rough  and  un- 
couth, but  to  theirs  filled  with  sweet  music,  and 
they  recite  their  poems  at  the  jochs  floral  or  floral 
games,  held  after  the  manner  of  the  ancient  jeux 
■floraux  of  Provence  and  Languedoc,  each  year,  in 
early  May,  in  the  Lonja  at  Barcelona.  And  I  have 
met  and  known  at  least  one  of  the  laureates  to  whom 
was  awarded  the  title  of  ^^Mestre  en  Gay  Saber  ^* 
(Master  of  the  Gay  Science)  given  for  proficiency 
in  Catalan  poetry. 

Its  architects,  too,  long  ago,  developed  a  character- 
istic style  of  their  own  and  in  Tarragona,  Barcelona, 
Camprodon  and  Gerona,  notable  examples  of  their 
work,  both  in  domestic  and  ecclesiastical  architecture, 
may  be  seen.  Early  in  the  Gothic  period  they  broke 
away  from  the  traditions  of  their  French  masters — 
traditions  that  had  produced  the  Cathedrals  of  Leon 
and  Toledo,  and  the  lace-like  spires  of  Burgos — and 

[224] 


/■      f 


•v■i■^.'^■'  „. 


5^ 


i 


if?S 


r 


I,  r 


JiV/  f|.     &'■■'<" 


tlifel 


m 

'The  Lace-like  Towers  oj  Burgos' 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

had  evolved  a  special  type  of  church  remarkable  for 
several  important  features  not  to  be  found  elsewhere 
in  Gothic  cathedrals. 

Havelock  Ellis,  in  his  admirable  chapter  on  "San- 
ta Maria  del  Mar,"  *  has  ably  traced  the  develop- 
ment of  this  Catalan  type  of  church,  which,  he  does 
not  hesitate  to  declare,  possesses  such  a  "fine  and 
original  sense  of  architectural  beauty  "  that  it  makes 
of  Catalonia  and  Valencia  "the  main  focus  of  vital 
feeling"  for  Hispanic  church  architecture. 

And  certainly,  the  great  cathedrals  of  Tarragona, 
Barcelona,  and  Gerona,  with  their  vast  naves  of 
most  unusual  width,  their  highly  developed  internal 
buttress  systems,  and  their  restraint  in  the  use  of 
window  openings,  due  to  a  desire  to  shut  out  rather 
than  to  admit  the  dazzling  sunshine  of  this  favored 
corner  of  Spain,  differ  greatly  from  the  northern 
churches  and  make  a  profound  impression  upon  the 
beholder. 

I  have  mentioned  these  three  buildings  in  their 
chronological  order.  In  Tarragona  cathedral  the 
Catalan  characteristics  have  only  begun  to  manifest 
themselves,  but  already  evince,  notably  in  the  su- 

*  "The  Soul  of  Spain,"  by  Havelock  Ellis. 
[226] 


Cathedral  of  Tarragona 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

perb  sculptures  of  the  cloisters  (to  my  mind,  the 
finest  and  most  interesting  in  Spain),  the  extreme 
vigor  and  extraordinary  fertility  of  the  Catalan's  in- 
ventive genius.  The  cathedral  of  Barcelona  is  the 
next  step,  and  the  vast  proportions  of  its  nave,  the 
unusual  grouping  of  its  chapels,  the  indifference  to 
the  effect  of  its  exterior,  that  was  left  unfinished  and 
neglected,  while  all  the  wealth  of  the  architect's  tal- 
ents were  expended  upon  the  dark  interior,  that, 
veiled  in  a  dull  penumbra,  only  reveals  its  soaring 
vaults  and  shadowy  details,  when  the  eye  has  be- 
come accustomed  to  the  deep-toned  half-light,  are 
all  distinctively  Catalan. 

But  of  the  great  churches  of  Catalonia,  the  cathe- 
dral of  Gerona  is  the  fullest  flower.  The  evolution 
of  the  aisleless  nave,  with  its  seventy-three  foot  span, 
is  complete,  the  hardihood  of  Boffiy's  design  being 
such  that  the  Chapter  hesitated  long  before  adopt- 
ing it.  It  is  filled,  too,  with  manifold  and  unusual 
treasures,  which  we  visited  in  company  with  one  of 
its  canons,  a  briUiant  young  man  whose  future  in 
the  Church  is  assured,  but  I  shall  not  attempt  to  de- 
scribe the  beauty  of  what  we  saw  for  fear  that  I 
may  seem  to  dwell  unduly,  in  the  Kmits  of  this 

[228] 


IN   CATALONIA 

short  chapter,  upon  the  churches  of  Catalonia.  Yet 
I  think  one  may  be  excused  for  doing  even  this, 
when  one  reahzes  how  closely  they  are  knitted  to 
the  daily  life  of  the  people  and  what  an  ^integral  part 


Gerona  from  the  Banks  of  the  Ona 


of  that  life  they  are.  The  humblest  look  upon  them 
as  their  home.  Holidays  are  not  merely  holy  daj's, 
but  are  festivals  as  well.  The  noble  and  the  beggar; 
the  army,  the  clergy,  and  the  civic  functionaries; 
the  schools,  the  tradesmen — all  join  togetlier  in  the 

[229  ] 


^^m^ 


!;«^2?"'^=Sto-*' 


^^San  Felius  Truncated  Spire' ^ 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

religious  processions  that  mark  the  many  festivities 
of  the  year. 

In  Gerona  we  witnessed  one  of  these  curious  pro- 
cessions, that  which  closed  the  week  of  Corpus.  We 
were  walking  in  one  of  the  narrow  streets  beyond 
the  cathedral,  when  we  noted  a  sudden  excitement 
among  the  children,  followed  by  cries  of  "Los  Gi- 
gantes  !"  And  up  the  street  came  a  strange  cortege: 
first,  queer  figures,  about  life-size,  but  with  enor- 
mous, grotesque  heads  {los  cabczudos),  followed  by 
two  gigantic  personages  {los  gigantes)^  some  ten  or 
twelve  feet  high,  mediaeval  in  aspect  and  costume,  a 
king,  carrvang  his  scroll  and  sceptre  and  accompa- 
nied by  his  queen,  with  her  fan,  her  lace  handker- 
chief, and  her  nosegay  of  fresh  flowers.  Behind 
these  appeared  a  huge  gilded  eagle,  with  a  Hve  white 
dove  in  its  moutli,  and  carried  by  four  young  men, 
lineal  descendants  of  those  who  had  carried  this 
great  bird,  the  city  emblem,  for  centuries. 

All  these  strange  figures  ranged  themselves  at  the 
base  of  tlie  vast  staircase  that  mounts  to  the  cathe- 
dral. Music  was  heard  down  the  street;  the  police 
and  firemen  appeared,  followed  by  the  mayor  and 
the  town  council,  at  whose  passage  all  the  figures 

[231] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

gravely  bowed  in  token  of  respect — all  except  the 
King  and  Queen,  who  owing  to  their  great  height, 
could  not  bow,  but  solemnly  pirouetted  round  and 
round  upon  their  tiny  feet.  The  officials  mounted 
the  steps,  at  whose  summit  the  clergy  awaited  them, 
and  all  disappeared  together  into  the  church. 

If,  however,  you  want  to  see  the  real  mystic  spirit 
of  the  Catalan  peasant  and  realize  the  true  part  his 
religion  plays  in  his  life,  you  should  climb  to  the 
sacred  pilgrim  shrine  of  Montserrat. 


[232] 


n 

MONTSERRAT 

MONTSERRAT  is  to  Spain  what  Lourdes  is 
to  France  or  what  Oropa  and  Varallo  are 
'  to  Northern  Italy.  But  its  natural  setting 
is  incomparably  finer  than  any  of  these,  for  the 
Montserrat  is  one  of  the  most  spectacular,  one  of 
the  most  amazing  and  unusual  mountains  imagi- 
nable. 

I  shall  never  forget  our  first  view  of  it,  when,  as 
the  train  from  Barcelona  rounded  a  curve,  there  ap- 
peared, above  the  intervening  pine  groves  and  red- 
brick villages,  this  extraordinary  vision  in  the  sky, 
blue,  faint,  crested  with  clouds  and  fantastic  as  a 
dream.  Nor  did  this  illusion  dispel  itself  as  we  ap- 
proached, for,  w^hen  next  we  saw  it,  the  Montserrat 
loomed  nearer,  with  its  gray  pinnacles,  jagged  and 
sharp  as  tlie  teeth  of  a  saw,  and  shaped  like  obelisks 
or  castles  or  skyscrapers,  wreatlied  in  clouds  or 
tipped  with  vaporj^  filaments,  inexplicable,  phantas- 
magoric, silhouetted  against  a  hvid  sky  shot  with 

[233] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

gold.  No  wonder  that  all  through  the  Middle  Ages 
legend  had  it  that,  concealed  among  its  rocky  fast- 
nesses, lay  hidden  the  Holy  Grail. 

The  country  all  about  it  is  as  wild  as  in  Colorado. 
The  red  earth  is  of  the  color  of  rusted  iron.  Deep 
barrancas  cut  the  bare  hills  that  have  been  patiently 
terraced  here  and  there  with  olive  orchards.  At 
Monistrol  we  changed  to  a  little  rack-and-pinion 
railway  that  took  its  way  off  and  across  the  turgid 
Llobregat  toward  the  cliffs  that  now  towered  mightily 
above  our  heads. 

A  long  climb,  with  the  earth  falling  away  beneath 
us,  the  olive  groves  becoming  more  and  more  like 
contour  maps,  with  their  stone  terraces  marking  the 
different  levels,  the  Llobregat  winding  farther  and 
farther  away  between  its  ruddy  walls,  the  houses 
and  farms  becoming  mere  specks  upon  the  land- 
scape, the  dizzy  abysses  yawning  ever  deeper  and 
deeper,  until,  with  a  final  snort,  the  engine  stopped 
at  the  little  terminal  station. 

We  quickly  made  arrangements  for  our  stay,  were 
given  the  key  to  a  neat  room  in  one  of  the  aposentos, 
where  free  lodgment  is  given  to  strangers,  who,  how- 
ever, must  make  their  own  beds  and  draw  their 

[234] 


Montserrat 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

own  water,  and  then  walked  over  to  the  famous 
monastery,  the  most  noted  pilgrim  shrine  of  Cata- 
lonia, nay,  I  think  I  may  say  of  all  Spain. 

K  the  architecture  of  these  monastic  buildings 
had  been  equal,  for  example,  to  Juvara's  fagade 
and  portico  at  Oropa,  the  Monastery  of  Montserrat 
would  have  been  the  most  impressive  that  I  know. 
And  even  in  its  unfinished  ineffectiveness,  the  place 
makes  a  profound  impression  owing  to  its  unique 
situation.  The  interior  of  the  great  church  too, 
the  core  and  kernel  of  the  group,  dark  and  myste- 
rious like  the  other  Catalan  churches,  leaves  a  deep 
and  solemn  impress  on  the  mind,  and  one  can  readily 
understand  the  awe  of  the  simple  peasants  who  come 
by  the  tens  of  thousands  to  pray  in  its  devotional 
atmosphere  before  the  image  of  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
that  is  ensconced,  robed  in  gold  brocade  and  glit- 
tering with  diamonds  and  other  precious  stones, 
under  a  canopy  far  up  above  the  high  altar,  where 
her  niche  may  be  reached  by  the  faithful,  and 
where  her  hand,  polished  by  the  homage  of  cen- 
turies, may  be  reverently  kissed. 

The  people  who  frequent  this  shrine  are  a  study 
in  themselves.    There  are  Catalan  mountaineers  in 

[236] 


r^  Monastery  Buildings,  Montserrat 


/^     I'm 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

short  coats  and  black  small-clothes  with  white 
stockings  and  primitive  shoes  tied  round  their  feet; 
there  are  families  who  come  with  their  cooks  and 
servants,  to  stay  and  live  as  they  would  at  home; 
there  are  ill  people  and  pilgrimages  with  their 
crosses  and  banners  and  seminarists  from  all  the 
colleges  of  Spain.  And  at  meal  times  all  these  pil- 
grims, like  the  inhabitants  of  a  small  town,  pour 
forth  from  archway  and  stairway,  talking  and  sing- 
ing, and  wend  their  way  to  the  restaurants  where 
meals  are  served  to  fit  the  purse  of  rich  and  poor 
alike. 

But  when  all  Is  said  and  done,  it  is  the  mountain 
itself  that  is  the  chief  attraction  of  Montserrat: 


"La  Montanya  era  un  penyal, 
i  ara  es  un  coral 
que  floreix  i  esclata; 
sa  nuesa  es  un  jatde 
hont  vespre  i  mate 
rossinyols  hi  canten."* 


It  was  early  May  when  we  were  there  and  spring 
was  just  budding.     Every  rock  crevice  was  a  tiny 

*  "Balada  de  Montserrat,"  a  popular  Catalan  song. 

[238] 


IN  CATALONIA 

garden.  Wild  roses,  crocuses,  hyacinths;  the  white- 
starred  clematis,  the  fragrant  yerha  santa  flowered 
among  the  boulders;  while  the  rocky  walls  that  rose 
above  our  heads  were  clothed  with  blackberry  vines, 
with  masses  of  glistening  ivy  and  holly;  with  per- 
fumed honeysuckle  and  blossoming  laurel.  The 
evergreens  that  found  footing  in  the  rocks  were 
putting  forth  their  new  young  leaves  and  the  decidu- 
ous trees  were  bursting  into  green.  And  the  bird- 
notes  were  everywhere. 

And  when  I  raised  my  eyes  from  these  enchant- 
ing foregrounds,  along  the  road  to  Los  Degotalls, 
and  looked  out  over  illimitable  space,  I  could 
see  Monistrol  and  the  country  round  about  it  laid 
out  like  a  map  at  my  feet,  like  a  view  from  an  air- 
plane, tw^o  thousand  feet  below.  The  rugged  hills 
were  dotted  with  tiny  villages  and  spotted  with 
cloud  shadow^s  that  diminished  in  perspective  one 
beyond  another,  becoming  bluer  and  fainter  until 
they  merged  into  the  purple  Pyrenees,  that,  their 
summits  glistening  with  snow-fields,  bounded  the 
far  horizon. 

The  walk  to  La  Cueva  has  quite  a  different  aspect. 
A  broad  foot-path,  partly  stepped,  partly  a  steep, 

[239} 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

rocky  road,  but  wide  enough  to  permit  pilgrims  to 
walk  in  procession,  follows  the  edge  of  a  precipice, 
an  abyss  yawning  on  the  one  hand  and  the  gaunt 
pinnacles  of  rock  towering  high  above  your  head 
upon  the  other.  Along  it,  at  frequent  intervals, 
are  monuments,  mostly  in  execrable  taste,  to  be  sure, 
but  in  such  extraordinary  surroundings  that  one 
is  apt  to  forget  and  pardon  their  artistic  defects  and 
remember  only  the  intention.  Some  are  strangely 
realistic,  as,  for  example,  a  Resurrection,  with  an 
empty  tomb  and  the  weeping  Marys  in  a  cave, 
while  the  Risen  Christ,  unusually  life-like,  is  fast- 
ened to  the  cliff  above. 

Upon  these  heights,  the  weather  is  often  cloudy 
and  the  cliffs  appear  and  disappear  with  disconcert- 
ing and  often  startling  effect.  Filaments  of  vapor 
rise  from  the  valley  below  and,  rushing  upward, 
join  the  clouds  overhead.  These  again  close  in  and 
blot  out  the  heights  that  then  reappear  at  intervals 
like  visions  in  the  sky. 

At  the  end  of  this  La  Cueva  road,  is  a  small 
cruciform  chapel  closely  attached  to  the  hillside 
and  protecting  the  sacred  cave  in  which,  according 
to  legend,  the  miracle-working  image  of  the  Virgin 

[  240  ] 


IN  CATALONIA 

was  first  discovered.  The  intention  was  to  carry 
this  sacred  image  to  Manresa,  but  when  it  reached 
the  spot  where  the  IVIonastery  now  stands,  it  sud- 
denly became  so  heavy  that  it  could  be  carried  no 
further,  so  there  its  shrine  was  built. 

There  are  numerous  other  delightful  walks  upon 
the  mountain.  You  may  go  to  the  various  chapels, 
scattered  here  and  there  upon  its  flanks,  to  San 
Miguel  or  to  Santa  Cecilia,  that  command  most 
beautiful  views,  or  to  the  curious  caves,  "La  Espe- 
ranza,"  *'E1  Camarin,"  hung  with  stalactites  and 
dripping  with  water  that  rusts  their  walls  and 
floors  until  they  resemble  the  tiles  of  the  Moors 
in  their  gorgeous  colorings;  and,  above  all,  you  may 
visit  the  hermitages,  dedicated  to  a  variety  of  saints 
and  lived  in,  during  all  the  Middle  Ages,  by  holy 
men  who,  forsaking  the  trials  and  tribulations  of 
this  mundane  sphere,  took  up  their  abode  upon 
these  mountain  heights,  and  from  their  airy  crags 
looked  down  upon  the  troubles  of  the  world. 

The  Hermitage  of  San  Jeronimo  is  built  upon  the 
highest  point  of  all,  and  from  its  dizzy  height  your 
eye  embraces,  not  only  all  of  Catalonia,  but  part 
of  Aragon  and  Valencia  as  well,  and  on  very  clear 

[241  ] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

days,  when  the  wind  has  swept  the  sky  as  clear  and 
hard  as  brass,  even  the  dim  forms  of  the  Balearic 
Islands  may  be  descried  far  off  at  sea. 


[242] 


X 

MALLORCA 


MALLORCA 

IF  you  want  to  forget  your  cares  and  leave  be- 
hind you  for  a  while  the  hurry  and  the  bustle 
of  modern  hfe,  go  down  some  evening  to  the 
port  of  Barcelona,  and  take  one  of  the  immaculate 
little  steamers  that  ply  to  these  Balearic  Islands,  the 
Islas  Doradas  or  Golden  Isles  of  the  ancients. 

Next  morning  at  daybreak,  you  will  see  the  purple 
headlands  of  Mallorca  rise  from  the  sea,  sheer  and 
precipitous,  and  these  cliffs  will  rise  higher  and 
higher  as  you  approach  them,  cutting  their  varied 
silhouettes  against  the  glory  of  the  rising  sun,  until, 
as  you  round  the  Dragonera,  they  disappear  from 
view  as  you  begin  to  see  the  golden  promontories  of 
the  south  coast  stretch  out  before  j^ou. 

The  boat  on  which  w^e  embarked  was,  very  ap- 
propriately, named  the  Don  Jaime  I,  for  the  youth- 
ful King  of  Aragon  who,  in  the  early  part  of  the 
thirteenth  century^  had  set  forth  with  a  proud  fleet 
and  an  army  of  seventeen  thousand  men  to  wrest 
the  islands  from  the  ]\Ioors.  We  were  steering  prac- 
tically the  same  course  tliat  he  had  taken  and,  as 

[245  ] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

we  passed  the  Bay  of  Santa  Ponza,  we  could  see 
where  his  ships  had  first  dropped  anchor  while  his 
scouting  parties  went  ashore;  and,  later,  as  we 
rounded  Cape  Calafiguera,  and  the  broad  blue  Bay 
of  Palma  opened  out  before  us,  we  watched  for  the 
spot  where  the  bulk  of  his  army  had  landed  at  Por- 
rasa  to  give  battle  to  the  Moors  drawn  up  before 
Porto  Pi. 

The  morning  sun  had  now  risen  sufficiently  to 
gild  the  shores  with  a  magic  glow  and,  as  we  entered 
the  harbor  itself,  the  houses  of  El  Terreno,  pink, 
blue,  and  green,  as  well  as  the  ancient  castle  on  the 
hill  above  them,  were  suffused  in  a  bath  of  golden 
Hght  that,  reflected  in  the  still  waters  of  the  bay, 
took  on  a  surface  like  translucent  enamel  or  like 
those  majolicas  for  which  the  island  was  famous, 
and  which,  indeed,  took  their  name  from  Majorca. 

Beyond  the  mole,  seen  above  the  lateen  sails  of 
the  fishing-smacks,  and  through  the  rigging  of  a 
steamer  or  two,  the  city  of  Palma,  girdled  by  its 
massive  walls,  lay  clustered  thick  about  the  golden 
mass  of  its  cathedral,  its  close-packed  houses,  white 
or  pale  in  color,  still  preserving  the  aspect  of  a  North 
African  city. 

[246] 


in  1^     'mIvX 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Drawn  up  upon  the  mole  was  a  swarm  of  little 
carriages  that,  somehow,  with  their  light  wooden 
frames  and  rounded  canvas  covers,  made  me  think 
of  the  boats  that  huddle  together  in  the  harbors  of 
Lake  Como.  Into  one  of  these  we  clambered  and 
rattled  up  the  Calle  de  la  Marina  and  the  Borne 
to  the  Grand  Hotel  that  stands  in  the  Plaza  Weyler, 
named  for  the  general  who  commanded  in  Cuba  on 
the  eve  of  our  Spanish  War. 

Here  we  ate  our  first  ensaimada  and  never  after, 
during  our  stay  upon  the  island,  did  we  miss  having 
one  for  breakfast.  To  write  of  Mallorca  without 
mentioning  its  ensaimadas  would  be,  to  a  Spaniard, 
like  writing  of  Rome  without  mentioning  the  Pope ! 
Their  origin  is  lost  in  remotest  antiquity,  but 
whether  invented  by  Moor  or  Christian,  by  bishop 
or  monk,  a  good  ensaimada  is  fit  for  the  gods,  being 
in  fact  something  like  a  doughnut,  but  a  doughnut 
without  a  hole,  pale  and  golden  in  color  and  light 
and  fluffy  as  a  dream,  absorbing  in  its  tender  coils, 
your  cofiPee  or  your  chocolate  to  melt  deliciously  in 
your  mouth. 

From  the  Plaza  Weyler,  you  mount  to  the  older 
quarters  of  the  city,  by  streets  and  alleys  that  are 

[248] 


MALLORCA 

so  steep  that,  for  the  most  part,  they  are  laid  out 
in  steps  and  so  narrow  tliat  only  a  slit  of  sky  ap- 
pears between  the  cornices  above  your  head.  The 
houses  that  border  the  thoroughfares  of  the  upper 
town  are  high,  but  gay  and  bright  in  color,  and  plen- 
tifully provided  with  those  miradors  or  balconies 
enclosed  in  glass  and  shaded  by  Venetian  blinds 
behind  which  you  are  so  often  conscious  that  pairs 
of  eyes  are  watching  you. 

These  balconies,  borrowed  from  the  moucharains 
of  the  Moors,  give  a  touch  of  the  Orient  to  the  nar- 
row streets,  and  this  impression  is  intensified  by  the 
flights  of  steps,  faced  up  with  glazed  tiles,  that 
ascend  steep  as  ladders  to  the  upper  stories  of  the 
houses  as  well  as  by  the  aspect  of  the  Uttle  shops 
that  stand  open  to  the  streets  with  goldsmiths,  cob- 
blers, or  basket-weavers  plying  their  trades  before 

your  eyes. 

Descendants  of  Iberians,  of  Carthaginians  and 
Romans,  of  Vandals  and  of  Moors,  the  Mallorcans 
are  a  mixed  race  and,  though  truly  meridional  in 
temperament,  with  their  quick  gestures  and  vi- 
vacious ways,  they  are  what  we  call  "insular,"  that 
is,  none  too  fond  of  the  stranger  and  a  little  jealous 

[249] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

of  their  own  beautiful  island.  They  speak  a  vigor- 
ous but  rather  harsh  patois  that  is  a  derivative  of 
the  Catalan  and  the  Provengal,  that  fascinating 
language  of  the  troubadours.  Their  national  cos- 
tume has  almost  disappeared  except  in  the  remote 
districts,  its  only  vestige  remaining  being  the  rebo- 
cillo  still  worn  by  many  of  the  women — a  sort  of 
cap  and  shoulder  cape  combined,  but  even  it  has 
shrunk  to  the  smallest  possible  dimensions. 

The  first  visit  we  paid  in  Palma  was  to  the  cathe- 
dral that  stands  facing  the  palace  of  the  King  on 
the  highest  point  of  the  town.  Its  exterior,  especially 
the  mighty  buttresses  ranged  along  its  sides  to  sup- 
port the  thrust  of  its  soaring  vaults,  make  it  a  worthy 
companion  to  the  great  Hispanic  churches,  but  its 
interior  does  even  more  than  that.  Like  all  the 
cathedrals  of  Catalonia,  its  nave  is  unusually  wide 
and  is  separated  from  the  aisles  by  only  fourteen 
piers,  seven  on  each  side  and  each  a  hundred  feet 
in  height,  so  that  the  space  enclosed  seems  and  is 
singularly  vast  and  impressive.  Many  of  its  tall 
windows  have  been  walled  up  to  exclude  the  blind- 
ing Hght  of  the  southern  sea,  so  that  now  its  vaults 
and  pillars,  the  gilded  retablos  of  its  chapels,  the 

[250] 


MALLORCA 

carved  stalls  and  tapestries  of  the  choir  and  the 
curious  baldachin  that  hangs  suspended  over  the 
high  altar,  all  melt  together  in  a  dim  penumbra 
that  imparts  a  peculiarly  devotional  atmosphere  to 
the  place. 

Thus  it  is  with  blinking  eyelids  that  one  emerges 
through  the  south  portal  into  the  blinding  glare  of 
the  terraces  which  surmount  the  city  ramparts  over- 
hanging the  sea.  To  the  east,  atop  the  upper  walls, 
rises  the  great  bulk  of  the  Bishop's  Palace;  to  the 
south  stretch  the  broad  blue  waters  of  the  bay, 
while  to  the  westward  lie  the  terraces  and  palm  gar- 
dens of  the  Royal  Palace,  that  still  retains  its  old 
Arab  name,  the  Almudaina,  and  from  whose  towers 
the  Emir  Abu  Yahye  watched  the  soldiers  of  Don 
Jaime  land  near  Porrasa  down  the  bay.  This  Al- 
cazar, now  the  official  residence  of  the  captain-gen- 
eral of  the  Balearic  Islands,  has  lost,  through  succes- 
sive restorations,  much  of  its  ancient  character,  so 
that  it  is  to  other  palaces  in  Palma  that  one  must 
turn  in  search  of  interesting  interiors. 

Flights  of  steps  descend  from  these  terraces  to  the 
Marina,  where  stands  the  Lonja,  or  Exchange,  a 
building  whose  harmonious  proportions  and  exqui- 

[251  ] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

site  detail  stamp  it  as  a  little  masterpiece  of  Gothic 
architecture,  while  its  interior,  with  its  groined  roof 
held  aloft  by  tall,  slender,  twisted  columns  that  rise 
like  the  boles  of  palm-trees  from  the  floor,  testify  to 
the  taste  as  well  as  to  the  wealth  of  the  mediaeval 
traders  who  built  it  and  who  prospered  here  in 
Palma,  when  the  city  was  an  important  seaport  of 
the  Mediterranean. 

Beyond  the  Lonja,  the  Marina  ends  in  the  suburb 
of  El  Terreno,  above  which  rises  the  Castle  of  Bell- 
ver.  To  reach  this  feudal  stronghold  you  must 
climb  through  fragrant  pine  groves  until,  through 
the  interlacing  branches,  you  perceive  its  walls  and 
moated  keep  towering  above  you — a  perfect  evoca- 
tion of  the  middle  ages.  Fortress,  residence  of  kings, 
prison  for  political  exiles,  it  has  witnessed  and  been 
part  of  many  historic  episodes.  From  its  moats 
that  girdle  it  intact  rise  its  mighty  walls  and  towers 
to  enclose  a  vast  circular  courtyard  that  seems  as  if 
it  should  still  resound  with  the  tread  of  men-at- 
arms.  Yet  its  vaulted  chambers  are  bare  and 
empty.  But  from  their  windows  one  catches  pre- 
liminary glimpses  of  the  wonderful  panorama  that 
unfolds  itself  from  the  broad,  flat  roof,  that,  circu- 

[252] 


MALLORCA 


-'_»^^-itfTr>^«^'v    ■>- 


'♦'■oT^ 


The  Almudaina  and  the  Calle  de  la  Seo,  Palma 

lar  in  form,  like  the  central  platform  of  the  dioramas 
of  our  childhood,  commands  an  uninterrupted  view 
in  every  direction. 

[253] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Immediately  below,  yet  mirrored  in  the  still  waters 
of  the  inner  bay,  lies  Palma,  beyond  which  stretches 
the  broad,  flat  vcga,  rich,  well-tilled,  and  dotted  with 
farms  and  jincas,  dominated  by  the  Randa,  a  single 
conical  peak,  and  extending  as  far  as  Cape  Blanco. 
The  Mediterranean  stretches  glittering  along  the 
southern  horizon,  while  to  the  west  and  north  rise 
the  mountain-ranges  that  are  the  crowning  glory  of 
the  island.  While  all  the  rest  of  this  broad  land- 
scape lay  flooded  with  sunshine,  their  summits  stood 
wreathed  in  clouds  and  bathed  in  thunder-showers. 
These  were  the  mountains  we  had  seen  from  the  sea, 
and  as  we  looked  at  their  cool,  mysterious  heights, 
that  one  by  one,  as  the  sun  neared  its  setting,  bared 
their  heads  to  the  evening  breeze,  their  appeal  be- 
came too  potent  to  resist,  and  we  decided  forthwith 
to  start  out  and  explore  their  woods  and  valleys, 
their  villages  and  ancient  convents. 

So  early  next  morning,  in  a  light  open  carriage, 
we  set  out  across  the  vega  for  Valldemosa.  The 
dusty  white  road  that  ran  between  low  walls  over 
which  clambered  hedges  of  prickly  pear  and  cactus; 
the  houses,  with  their  walls  shaded  by  deep  colon- 
nades and  marked  in  almost  every  case  by  one  or 

[  254  ] 


MALLORCA 

two  tall  palm  trees;  the  olive  groves;  the  acacias  and 
fig-trees  and  sycamores  that  bordered  the  road,  com- 


Carthusian  Monastery  of  Valldcmosa 


bined  to  make  a  truly  African  landscape;  while  the 
acequias,  or  water-courses,  hollowed  in  the  tops  of 
the  walls  to  irrigate  the  thirsty  fields,  as  w^ell  as  the 
primitive  water-wheels  turned  by  blindfolded  don- 

[255] 


THROUGH   SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

keys,  made  me  think  continually  of  the  country 
round  Tunis  or  Tangier. 

Gradually  the  mountains  drew  nearer,  and  as  we 
approached  them  looked  gray  and  bald  and  dry. 
But  when  we  came  closer  we  could  see  little  gardens 
hiding  among  the  rocks,  hedged  in  with  myrtle,  car- 
peted with  moss  and  bright  with  wild  flowers. 
Higher  and  higher  we  climbed  through  the  foot-hills, 
steeper  and  steeper  grew  the  deserted  road,  until,  at 
an  altitude  of  about  fourteen  hundred  feet,  we  de- 
scried far  above  us  a  village  with  a  church  tower  and 
a  great  pile  of  ancient  buildings,  long  and  irregular 
in  form,  set  upon  terraces  and  marked  by  venerable 
towers:  the  old  Carthusian  monastery  of  Valldemosa. 

We  drew  up  at  the  inn  and  were  shown  to  a  room 
of  the  utmost  simplicity,  but  neat  as  a  pin,  with 
whitewashed  walls  and  a  glazed- tile  floor.  This 
cleanliness,  we  found  later,  was  quite  characteristic 
not  only  of  Valldemosa  but  of  most  of  the  villages  of 
Mallorca,  thus  differentiating  this  island  from  many 
of  its  Mediterranean  sisters.  Valldemosa  is  set  upon 
terraces  planted  with  olive  and  almond-trees  and 
rising  one  upon  another  like  the  gradients  of  a  huge 
Greek  theatre  whose  stage  is  formed  by  the  hills 
that  only  partly  conceal  the  valley,  opening  just 

[25Q] 


MALLORCA 

enough  to  reveal  tlie  vcga  and  Palma  lying  far  below 
on  the  edge  of  its  turquoise  bay. 

We  had  come  to  Valldemosa  with  the  prospect  of 
a  double  pleasure,  for  beside  our  enjoyment  of  the 
natural  beauties  of  the  place,  we  knew  that  a  wel- 
come awaited  us  from  the  family  who  occupied  the 
oldest  portion  of  the  monastery,  the  part  that  had 
been  the  palace  of  King  Sancho.  Many  well-known 
people — Ruben  Dario,  Sargent,  Sorolla — had  been 
their  guests,  and  their  library,  in  an  old  tower  that 
Jovellanos  had  occupied  during  his  exile,  was  filled 
with  rare  books  and  manuscripts,  so  we  hoped  that 
we  should  be  plunged  at  once  into  the  romantic 
atmosphere  of  the  valley.  This  hope  indeed  came 
true,  for  no  sooner  had  we  arrived  than  an  evening 
was  planned  in  our  honor.  A  score  of  young  men 
from  the  village,  with  their  mandolins  and  guitars, 
sang  songs  for  us,  especially  an  ancient  tj-pe  of 
bolero  called  El  Parado  (The  Stop),  a  queer  minor 
melody,  reminiscent  of  the  Orient,  echoed  by  the 
chorus  from  a  solo  voice: 

"In  the  middle  of  the  Borne* 
(In  the  middle  of  the  Borne) 
The  moon  has  fallen  down, 
(The  moon  has  fallen  down) 

*  The  principal  promenade  of  Palma. 

[  257  ] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

And  has  broken  into  four  pretty  parts 
Of  which  thou  art  one. 

"From  the  City  of  Valencia, 
(From  the  City  of  Valencia) 
Four  great  painters  have  arrived 
(Four  great  painters  have  arrived) 
To  limn  the  Holy  Virgin  of  the  Sorrows." 

In  between  these  quaint  old  songs,  each  having 
many  verses,  the  daughters  of  the  family,  dressed 
in  the  picturesque  native  costumes  of  fifty  years 
ago,  danced  the  varied  and  charming  steps  of  the 
boleros  of  Mallorca,  while  at  other  times  (O  rare 
contrast!)  the  musicians  played  "Hindoostan"  and 
the  young  people  from  Palma  danced  two-steps  and 
fox-trots ! 

Among  the  guests  were  several  who  occupied 
cells  in  the  monastery.  V^^hen  I  say  "cells,"  you 
must  not  imagine  the  anchoretic  abodes,  four  by 
seven  feet  in  size,  in  which  certain  hermits  used  to 
pass  their  lowly  lives.  For,  when  Don  Sancho's 
palace  was  given  over  to  the  Carthusians,  the 
monks  began  the  construction  of  a  great  monastery 
(never  quite  completed)  planned  upon  so  vast  a 
scale   that   a   stately   church,   two   cemeteries   and 

[258] 


MALLORCA 

several  cloister  courts  were  enclosed  within  It. 
Each  "cell"  consisted  of  three  vaulted  chambers 
of  goodly  dimensions,  one  of  which  was  the  monk's 
kitchen  and  work-room,  the  second  his  place  for 
meditation  and  prayer,  and  the  third  his  bedroom. 
His  food  was  passed  to  him  through  a  wicket  that 
gave  upon  the  main  corridor,  for  the  Carthusians 
were,  I  believe,  only  allowed  to  see  or  speak  to  each 
other  one  day  in  the  week. 

All  three  of  his  rooms  opened  upon  his  garden, 
placed  on  top  of  a  long  terrace  and  separated  from 
those  of  his  neighbors  by  high  stone  walls  but  com- 
manding a  vast  view  of  the  valley,  so  that  when  he 
stepped  from  his  cell  he  looked  into  unlimited  space 
upon  a  prospect  that  any  poet  might  en\y,  filled 
with  infinite  variety  and  multitudinous  detail :  mon ti- 
des topped  with  pilgrim-chapels,  rocks  of  strange 
and  varied  forms,  and  terraces  of  almond,  peach, 
and  lemon  trees  that  descended  like  giant  steps  to 
the  narrow  opening  in  the  mountains  through  which 
Palma  and  the  curve  of  its  shore  could  be  seen. 
Good  air,  good  water,  good  fruit;  a  sea  full  of  fish 
and  woods  full  of  game — what  more  could  be  de- 
sired by  monk  or  man  ! 

[259] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

And  so  it  is  that  these  comfortable  cells  are  now 
occupied  as  country  houses  by  certain  Mallorcan 
families  who  appreciate  the  charm  of  Valldemosa. 
To  one  of  them  attaches  a  particularly  romantic 
history,  for  in  it,  strange  to  relate,  Frederick  Chopin 
spent  a  winter  with  George  Sand,  who,  accompanied 
by  her  two  children,  made  a  voyage  to  Mallorca 
in  1838  in  search  of  new  sensations.  As  de  Musset 
had  accompanied  her  a  few  years  before  to  Venice, 
so,  on  this  occasion,  the  young,  blond  Polish  pianist 
was  her  chosen  companion. 

Soon  after  their  arrival,  Chopin  fell  ill  with  the 
first  symptoms  of  the  malady  that  was  to  carry  him 
off  in  the  full  prime  of  his  Hfe.  This  illness,  com- 
bined with  their  irregular  situation,  created  very 
serious  difficulties  for  them  in  Pahna  and,  after 
vainly  searching  for  shelter,  they  at  last  were  com- 
pelled to  come  up  to  this  then  abandoned  monastery 
and  install  themselves  in  one  of  its  cells.  Here  both 
went  to  work,  Chopin  on  his  Preludes  and  his  Noc- 
turnes, of  which  the  thirteenth,  notably,  bears  the 
imprint  of  the  place,  with  its  groans  of  anguish 
alternating  with  the  chanting  of  the  monks.  The 
strange  spot  made  a  deep  impression  upon  his  ro- 

[260] 


MALLORCA 

mantic  nature  and  its  cold  vaults,  accustomed  only 
to  monastic  chants,  must  have  been  surprised  at 
the  passionate  sounds  of  his  piano. 

George  Sand  describes  their  hfe  and  their  troubles 
in  Valldemosa  in  her  *'Un  Hiver  a  Majorque" 
which  little-known  book  is  usually  bound  in  the  same 
volume  of  her  works  that  contains  her  "Spiridion," 
which,  she  also  tells  us,  *'a  eie  ecrit  en  grande  partie 
et  termine  dans  la  Chartreuse  de  Valldemosa^  aux 
gemissements  de  la  hise  dans  les  cloitres  en  mines.'' 
And  who  indeed  that  has  read  that  book  and  who 
knows  Valldemosa  will  fail  to  recognize,  in  the  de- 
scription of  the  hermitage  of  St.  Hyacintli,  the 
hermitage  of  the  Trinity  and,  in  the  description  of 
the  sea  seen  from  the  heights,  the  abyss  at  the 
bottom  of  which  lies  the  little  fishing-port  of  Vallde- 
mosa. 

To  both  of  these  places  we  went  to  spend  the  day 
with  friends.  Soon  after  our  arrival,  we  were  asked 
to  go  on  a  picnic  and  were  driven  for  a  mile  or  two 
to  the  foot  of  a  steep  hill  where  we  got  out  and 
climbed  through  dense  pines  and  hemlocks,  high 
up  through  tlie  rocks.  The  road  was  quite  shut  in 
and  we  had  no  idea  where  we  were  going,  until, 

[  2G1  ] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

at  a  turning,  we  suddenly  found  ourselves  above 
a  sort  of  terrace  suspended  in  mid-air,  as  it  were, 
between  sea  and  sky.  High  above  our  heads  the 
mountains  still  towered,  while  below  the  eye  plunged 
down  two  thousand  feet,  almost  perpendicularly, 
to  the  sea  that  stretched,  calm  and  deep  and  blue, 
to  the  limits  of  the  far  horizon. 

The  effect  of  this  sudden  apparition  of  the  Medi- 
terranean, which  we  had  not  as  yet  seen  from  this 
side  of  the  island,  was  most  astonishing,  and  our 
surprise  was  further  heightened  by  discovering,  hid- 
den among  the  rocks  at  our  right,  a  little  hermitage — 
a  rude  and  simple  group  of  buildings,  with  a  chapel, 
a  cemetery  set  in  dark  cypresses,  and  a  dozen  cells 
for  tlie  monks.  For  in  this  Hermitage  of  the  Holy 
Trinity,  the  brothers  dwell  in  poverty  just  as  they 
did  in  the  middle  ages,  cultivating  their  garden, 
fasting  as  they  say  their  prayers,  and  sleeping  on 
rude  pallets  of  straw  with  a  single  woollen  cover. 

But  when,  once  in  a  while,  a  stranger  comes  to 
their  gate,  he  is  well  received.  At  our  approach, 
one  of  the  bearded  brothers  came  forth  to  meet  us 
and  led  us  toward  a  table  placed  upon  the  terrace 
overlooking  the  sea  and  set  out  with  the  preserved 

[262] 


MALLORCA 

capers,  the  wild  sea-fennel,  and  the  green  olives  that 
the  hermits  cure  themselves.  Our  friends  then 
greeted  us  and  we  sat  down  to  our  picnic  lunch. 
Instead  of  the  frugal  meal  that  w^e  expected,  the 
servants  who  had  preceded  us  now  began  to  bring 
forth,  from  the  humble  monastic  kitchen,  dish  after 
dish,  cooked  to  a  turn  and  piping  hot:  rice  a  la 
marinara,  a  succulent  fish,  vegetable  pies,  a  roasted 
leg  of  mutton,  and  delectable  fruits  and  pastries 
all  moistened  with  varied  and  appropriate  wines 
from  our  host's  own  vineyards,  so  that  this  outdoor 
meal  became  a  long  succession  of  agreeable  savors. 

Our  picnic  to  the  port  we  made  with  the  young 
couple,  a  Spanish  artist  and  his  wife,  who  own  the 
very  cell  that  George  Sand  once  occupied.  In  their 
country  carriage,  driven  by  their  faithful  old  Mallor- 
can  servant,  we  reached  the  edge  of  a  precipice  that 
drops  off  sheer  to  the  sea;  then,  slowly,  by  a  long 
succession  of  zigzags,  we  descended  the  face  of  this 
cliff  to  a  little  cove  or  bight  where  a  dozen  fisher- 
men's huts  face  the  sea,  houses  of  the  most  primitive 
description,  with  a  single  room  hung  with  nets  and 
tackle  and  containing  only  a  wooden  couch,  a  bench, 
and  a  rude  hearth  on  which  the  man  cooks  his  fish 

[263] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

and  rice,  and  by  which  he  eats  his  frugal  meals,  liv- 
ing to-day  just  as  the  fishermen  did  in  the  days  of 
the  Bible.  And  yet,  as  on  the  other  occasion,  from 
one  of  these  humble  abodes,  thanks  to  the  minis- 
trations of  the  servant  who  had  driven  us,  a  similar 
succession  of  Mallorcan  dishes  was  served  to  us  as 
we  sat  upon  a  little  terrace,  shaded  by  a  shelter  of 
pine-boughs,  overlooking  the  shimmering  sea. 

It  was  in  this  cove  that  the  Barbary  pirates  used 
to  land,  and,  scaling  the  cliffs,  fall  unawares  upon 
the  villagers  above,  killing  the  men,  plundering  the 
houses  and  carrying  off  the  women  into  captivity, 
and  it  was  in  the  glen  above  the  port  that  Raymond 
Gual  de  Mur,  lying  in  ambush  with  a  few  brave 
men,  routed  an  entire  expedition  as  it  returned  to 
its  boats,  drunk  and  laden  with  plunder  and  cap- 
tives. Even  to-day  the  coast-guards  come  down  at 
night  with  their  carbines  and  lie  wrapped  up  in 
blankets  on  the  cliffs,  watching  for  contraband, 
for  the  little  haven  is  a  perfect  smuggler's  cove. 

Each  day  of  our  stay  in  Valldemosa  we  made  some 
charming  excursion.  Sometimes  it  was  to  one  of 
the  romantic  villas  or  jincas  near  by:  Sa  Coma, 
with   its   thickets   of   golden-rain   and    its   terraces 

[264  ] 


JMALLORCA 

planted  with  cypress  hedges  ahve  with  the  songs  of 
nightingales;  Son  Gual,  where  Raymond  Gual  hved 
and  where  Saint  Vincent  Ferrer  preached,  using  for 
his  pulpit  the  trunk  of  an  old  olive-tree  that  stood 
until  quite  recently;  Son  Moragues,  set  in  myrtle 
hedges  and  ilex  groves,  with  c;^'press-trees  that  mount 
to  a  pink  grotto,  and  a  circular  reservoir  that  re- 
flects the  golden  cliffs  of  the  Teix,  the  highest  moun- 
tain in  the  vicinity. 

Sometimes  we  would  climb  a  lonely  monticle  and 
from  the  chapel  on  its  summit  watch  the  sun  go 
down  in  a  golden  glory,  as  in  some  serene  land- 
scape by  Claude  Lorraine;  or,  again,  we  w^ould  walk 
among  the  gnarled  olive  groves  where  the  sheep 
grazed  tended  by  their  silent  shepherd. 

Strange  as  are  the  shapes  that  olive-trees  can 
take,  nowhere  have  I  seen  them  contorted,  twisted, 
and  distorted  as  they  are  in  these  groves  of  Vallde- 
mosa.  Tenacious  of  life  to  the  last  degree,  they 
have  lived  for  many  centuries  and  in  their  old  age 
have  grown  deformed  and  misshapen,  affecting  the 
forms  of  creatures  neither  animal  nor  human,  yet 
resembling  both,  goblins  of  uncouth  shape,  monsters 
and   toads  and  crocodiles,   beasts  enlaced  as  if  in 

[265  ] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

mortal  combat,  until,  as  one  looks  at  their  twisted 
shapes,  one  is  tempted  to  cry,  with  the  painter  Ru- 
sinol,  *'Stop;  if  it  costs  you  such  pain  to  bear  your 
olives,  pray  bear  no  more  !'* 

But  I  think  that  of  all  these  walks,  the  ones  we 
loved  the  best  were  those  to  the  wooded  heights  of 
Miramar.  Perched  on  a  rocky  ledge  high  above  the 
sea,  yet  dominated  by  gigantic  cliffs  that  rise  per- 
pendicularly above  it,  Miramar  hangs  suspended  in 
mid-air,  enjoying,  though  from  a  slightly  lower  ele- 
vation, the  same  incomparable  panorama  as  the 
Hermitage  of  the  Holy  Trinity. 

Circlets  of  white  foam  outline  the  varied  contours 
of  the  coast,  but  everywhere  else  the  surface  of  the 
Mediterranean  lies  undisturbed,  calm,  polished,  and 
radiantly  blue.  It  has  its  storms,  to  be  sure,  but 
we  never  chanced  to  see  one,  and  it  was  only  when 
the  fogs  drove  in  toward  sunset,  blotting  out  cliff 
after  cliff  with  their  ghostly  fingers,  that  the  blue- 
ness  of  the  waters  vanished,  engulfed  by  the  silent 
mists.  Despite  the  steepness  of  the  cliffs  and  their 
apparent  aridity,  the  flora  of  Miramar  is  wonderful. 
Deep  forests  of  pine-trees  stretch  their  branches 
toward  the  sea,  and  groves  of  evergreens — live-oak. 


MALLORCA 

carobs,  and  ilexes — clothe  its  hillsides  with  their 
shade,  while  from  every  crack  and  cranny  of  the 
rocks  spring  wild  flowers  of  infinite  variety. 

Miramar    was    appreciated    by    the    Moors    and 


f^ 


'.-'^ 


> . 


ten. 


■ass-ca.- 


■■"V 


i): 


Miramar 


formed  part  of  the  farm  of  Haddayan.  Soon  after 
the  conquest,  it  was  granted  by  Jaime  II  to  that 
great  mediaeval  mystic  and  philosopher,  Rajinond 
Lull.  Son  of  a  nobleman  who  came  to  Mallorca 
with  the   Conqueror,   Raymond   Lull,  as  a  young 

[2C7] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

man,  lived  the  life  of  the  dissolute  courtiers  of  his 
time,  until  one  day,  as  he  was  rhyming  a  couplet 
to  his  inamorata,  he  beheld,  in  a  vision  of  terrible 
reality,  the  Saviour  on  the  Cross.  This  vision  was 
repeated  five  different  times  and  made  such  an  im- 
pression upon  the  youth  that  he  renounced  the  world 
and  its  joys,  and  began  a  series  of  pilgrimages  to  all 
the  shrines  and  places  of  learning  in  southern  Eu- 
rope. 

Returning  to  Palma,  Lull  began  the  study  of 
Arabic  so  as  to  be  able  to  argue  with  and  convert 
the  Moors,  and  he  conceived  the  idea  of  founding  a 
college  for  the  study  of  the  Oriental  languages  so 
as  to  be  able  to  accomplish  by  argument  what  the 
Crusaders  had  failed  to  do  by  the  sword.  With 
the  aid  of  the  Abbot  of  Montpellier,  he  induced  the 
King  to  grant  him  the  tract  of  Miramar  for  this 
purpose  and  established  upon  it  a  college  for  thir- 
teen friars,  the  very  first  of  the  chain  of  such  colleges 
for  missionaries,  antedating  by  three  centuries  and 
a  half  the  great  Roman  Institution  for  the  Propaga- 
tion of  the  Faith. 

So,  in  this  mountain  solitude,  Raymond  Lull  took 
up  his  abode  and  lived  a  life  of  contemplation  and 

[268] 


MALLORCA 

self-abnegation.  Here,  ^^enjre  la  vinya  el  fcnollar 
amor  m  ha  pres,  fent  Deu  amar  entre  sospirs  e  plors 
estar,"  as  he  expresses  it  in  his  old  Catalan,  "be- 
tween the  vine  and  the  fennel,  love  took  hold  of  nie; 
I  felt  the  love  of  God  enfold  me  between  sighs  and 
tears."  Here,  as  he  recounts  in  his  "Libre  de  Amich 
a  Amat,"  rising  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  he  opened 
the  casement  of  his  cell  that  he  might  behold  the 
skv  and  stars,  and  here  he  wrote  his  monumental 
"Libre  de  Contemplatio  en  Deu,"  that  remains  one 
of  the  great  pieces  of  mediaeval  literature.  His  learn- 
ing became  prodigious.  He  went  to  Paris  and  pro- 
fessed at  the  Sorbonne;  he  w^ent  to  Rome  and  argued 
with  the  Pope;  he  visited  the  Holy  Land,  Germany, 
and  many  other  lands. 

But  Miramar  is  the  beloved  name  that  recurs  in 
all  his  poems  and  in  his  deeper  thoughts,  and  the 
college  that  he  founded  there  grew  famous.  In  it, 
only  twenty-five  years  after  the  discovery^  of  print- 
ing, a  press,  tlie  first  upon  the  island,  was  set  up, 
and  I  have  held  in  my  hand  tlie  "Set  Estaciones  e 
Horas,"  printed  "^n  la  casa  de  trinitat  o  mira  mar 
de  la  Vila  de  Val  de  Miisse  en  la  maior  ilia  Baleaf* 
in  1487 ! 


) 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

The  spirit  of  Raymond  Lull  seems  ever-present  at 
Miramar;  at  every  step  some  souvenir  evokes  his 
image.  Here  are  the  grotto — still  marked  with  a 
cross — where  he  spent  long  periods  of  time  alone  in 
contemplation  and  the  spring  at  which  he  drank 
and  whose  praises  he  sings  in  his  poems;  there  the 
orator^^  and  the  Casa  de  le  Trinitat,  where  he  estab- 
hshed  his  college. 

These  latter  buildings  were  reconstructed,  after 
centuries  of  obHvion,  by  Louis  Salvador,  Arch- 
duke of  Austria,  who  bought  for  a  song  the  domain 
of  Miramar  from  the  peasant  into  whose  hands  it 
had  fallen.  To  it  he  added  the  adjoining  fincas : 
Son  Galceran,  with  its  watch-tower  that  spied  the 
approach  of  the  Moors;  Son  Gallart,  with  its  tor- 
tured olive-trees;  Son  Marroig,  commanding,  from 
its  Httle  temple,  a  view  of  the  entire  coast  down  to 
the  Dragonera,  until  he  had  in  his  possession  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  sea-fronts  in  the  Mediterranean. 
During  his  life-time  not  a  tree  was  allowed  to  be  cut 
from  its  forests,  but  through  their  delicious  umbrage 
he  caused  footpaths  to  be  made,  leading  from  one 
mirador  or  belvedere  to  another,  some  placed  high, 
others  lower,  but  always  so  as  to  command  the  most 

[270] 


MALLORCA 

entrancing  views  of  the  mountains  and  of  the  sea 
that  Hes  below,  so  pure,  so  crystaUine,  that  even 
from  these  heights  the  rocks  upon  its  bottom  are 
plainly  visible. 

Louis  Salvador  died  a  few  years  ago,  but  his  villa, 
still  filled  witli  the  ancient  furniture  that  he  col- 
lected, stands  quite  as  he  left  it,  only  a  few  paces 
from  the  road  that  leads  along  the  coast  from  Vall- 
demosa  to  Soller. 

So  that  when,  after  a  fortnight's  sojourn,  we 
finally  departed  from  Valldemosa  in  a  two-wheeled 
carretoti,  drawn  by  a  lively  mule,  we  took  a  last  look 
at  lovely  Miramar  and  continued  on  to  Deya,  a  pic- 
turesque old  to\\Ti  built  upon  a  conical  hill,  and  dat- 
ing from  the  time  of  the  Moors. 

The  road  beyond  Deya  is  as  beautiful  as  can  well 
be  imagined,  and  tempted  us  again  and  again  to 
stop  and  enjoy  tlie  bold  profiles  of  the  headlands, 
the  luxury  of  the  vegetation,  and  the  charm  of  the 
villas  and  villages  that  we  passed.  Finally  we  be- 
gan a  long  descent,  the  air  came  to  our  nostrils  laden 
with  the  scent  of  orange  and  lemon  blossoms;  palms, 
pomegranates,  bamboos,  loquats,  and  jTiccas  gave 
to  the  gardens  a  tropic  look,  as  we  dropped  down 

[271] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

to  tlie  warm  sea  level  and  entered  the  streets  of 
Seller. 

Soller  lies  in  a  valley  tliat  might  have  been  the 
crater  of  some  extinct  volcano,  and  in  its  rich,  allu- 
vial deposits  the  vegetation  grows  most  luxuriantly. 
Every  good  Mallorcan,  when  he  goes  forth  to  Amer- 
ica, North  or  South,  or  to  France,  as  many  of  them 
do,  to  seek  his  fortune,  dreams  that  some  day  he 
will  return  rich  and  build  a  villa  in  Soller.  Unfor- 
tunately for  Soller,  many  of  these  dreams  have  come 
true,  and  the  valley  fairly  bristles  with  just  the  sort 
of  houses  that  one  would  expect  to  find  under  these 
circumstances.  The  town,  therefore,  presents  little 
of  artistic  interest.  Its  circular  port,  shut  in  from 
the  sea,  is  very  pretty,  to  be  sure,  reminding  one  of 
the  smiling  lakelike  coves  on  the  Italian  Riviera,  but 
Soller  itself  did  not  tempt  us  to  linger,  so,  the  follow- 
ing morning,  we  boarded  a  diminutive  train  and,  in 
an  hour  or  so,  were  back  in  Palma. 

There  we  spent  some  days,  enjoying  the  city  and  its 
surroundings  and  driving  out  to  some  of  the  fincas, 
like  Raxa,  that  stands  against  a  background  of 
conical  hills — an  evocation  of  the  beautiful  Italian 
villas,  with  its  monumental  staircase,  adorned  with 

[272] 


MALLORCA 

statues  and  vases;  its  fountains  and  grottoes  and 
terraces  overlooking  the  olive  orchards  of  the  vega. 

Thanks  again  to  the  kindness  of  friends,  wc  visited 
also  some  of  the  great  palaces  of  Palma,  the  exist- 
ence of  which  the  stranger  would  scarcely  suspect,  so 
hidden  are  their  high  facades,  vast  in  scale  but  very 
simple,  in  the  narrow  labyrinths  of  the  old  city. 
Yet  as  soon  as  you  pass  their  portals  and  enter  the 
spacious  courtyard,  the  elegance  and  dignity  of  these 
noble  demesnes  are  at  once  apparent.  Their  patios, 
built  upon  the  grand  scale  so  characteristic  of  Span- 
ish architecture,  are  paved  with  flagstones  and  sur- 
rounded by  columns  or  colonnades  that  support 
vaulted  loggias  decorated  with  handsome  ironwork, 
the  most  elegant  of  them  being,  I  think,  tliat  of  the 
Casa  de  los  Marqueses  Sollerich. 

In  their  interior  arrangement  the  Palma  palaces 
resemble  each  other  to  a  marked  degree.  Mounting 
the  courtyard  staircase,  whose  steps  are  freshly 
sanded  each  morning  for  the  visitor,  you  ring  a  bell 
and  are  ushered  into  a  vast  vestibule  with  a  lofty 
beamed  ceiling  and  whitewashed  walls  hung  with 
family  portraits  or  with  great  dark  pictures  of  the 
school  of  Ribera  or  Zurbaran.     From  tliis  hall  you 

[273] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

enter  a  succession  of  rich  salons  that  seem  to  con- 
tinue forever:  a  salon  of  red  brocade,  a  tapestry 
salon,  a  green  salon,  and  so  on. 

Thus,  in  the  Casa  of  the  Marques  de  Vivot,  you 
find  these  salons  extending  across  several  streets  and 
terminating  in  a  beautiful  library  painted  in  Chinese 
vermiHon;  in  the  Casa  Oleza  whole  rooms  are  cov- 
ered with  verdure  tapestry,  while  in  the  Casa  del 
Marques  de  la  Cener  the  salons  are  hung  with  pic- 
tures of  great  value,  notably  a  Greco  of  his  best 
period  and  a  full-length  portrait  by  Murillo,  sober 
in  color  and  restrained  in  execution,  that  is  worthy 
to  rank  with  the  master's  most  important  works. 

But  the  finest  of  all  these  palaces,  to  my  mind, 
is  that  of  the  Marquese  de  Casa  Desbruill.  Not 
only  are  its  rooms  beautifully  proportioned  and 
decorated  with  rare  good  taste,  but  they  are  still 
filled  with  their  old  furniture  and  hung  with  tapes- 
tries and  with  the  silken  curtains  and  brocades 
woven  in  Mallorca  many  years  ago.  In  several 
of  the  salons,  below  the  rich  tapestries  that  cover 
the  upper  walls  and  just  above  the  chair  rail,  are 
friezes  depicting  landscapes  with  small  figures  painted 
for  the  most  part  by  a  Mallorcan  of  the  eighteenth 

[274] 


Patio  of  the  Casa  S oiler ich,  Palma 


MALLORCA 

century,    Gabriel    Flaminia,    that   give   a   charming 
and  quite  unusual  effect  to  the  rooms. 

The  furniture  of  these  Palma  palaces  is  equally 
interesting.  Whether  because  of  traditions  handed 
down  from  the  Moors  or  l)ecause  of  their  close  rela- 
tionship with  France,  the  Mallorcan  workmen  im- 
parted a  finish  to  their  work  and  a  restraint  to  their 
designs  that  are  uncommon  in  the  more  flamboyant 
products  of  other  Spanish  artisans,  so  that  their 
tables,  whose  legs  are  bound  together  with  spindles 
of  ornamental  iron;  their  chairs,  covered  with  leather 
or  with  old  red  velvet  and  studded  with  beautiful 
nails;  and  their  jewel  cabinets,  supported  upon  Carl- 
ist  eagles  and  embellished  with  numerous  compart- 
ments of  tortoise-shell  and  brass,  may  well  serve  as 
models  for  our  designers  of  to-day. 

There  was  one  other  spot  in  Mallorca  that  we 
wanted  to  see  before  we  left  the  island — a  painters' 
paradise  of  which  we  had  heard,  called  Pollensa. 
So,  one  morning,  we  took  the  train  to  Inca,  a  town 
of  some  importance,  and  thence  a  big  motor-bus  up 
to  the  extreme  northwest  corner  of  the  island,  thun- 
dering along  over  the  hills  until  we  saw  the  red  roofs 
of  the  town  spreading  themselves  in  the  sunshine. 

[275] 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

Pollensa  neither  possesses  the  romantic  charm  of 
Valldemosa  nor  does  any  particular  historic  event 
attach  to  it.  It  has  always  been,  as  it  is  to-day, 
a  primitive  village  whose  inhabitants  make  their 
living  by  plying  their  humble  trades  or  netting  the 
fish  of  the  sea.  But  it  is  exactly  this  that  gives 
the  place  its  peculiar  charm  and  makes  it  a  spot 
beloved  by  artists. 

In  every  open  doorway,  an  aged  granny  sits 
spinning  on  her  distaff,  or  a  child  is  busily  making 
brooms,  or  women  chatter  in  groups  as  they  weave 
or  embroider  on  linen,  and,  as  you  pass,  you  catch 
glimpses  of  a  cobbler  or  a  wheelwright  or  a  cabinet- 
maker at  work  in  shops  centuries  old,  using  the  same 
implements  that  their  forefathers  had  used  many 
years  ago.  Women  carrying  amphorse  shaped  like 
those  of  ancient  Greece  go  back  and  forth  to  the 
fountains;  down  by  the  bridge  that  spans  the  dry 
river-bed,  the  life  is  as  primitive  as  it  was  in  the 
days  of  the  Pharaohs.  Goatherds  and  shepherds 
bring  in  their  flocks;  pigs  squeal  as  they  are  goaded 
along  the  road;  the  two-wheeled  country  carts  re- 
turn from  the  fields  laden  with  singing  harvesters, 
while  every  once  in  a  while  there  passes  an  old  man, 

[27G] 


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THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

his  long  gray  locks  covered  with  a  broad  felt  hat, 
and  dressed  in  the  wide,  baggy  trousers  and  the 
beflowered  vest  of  other  days. 

The  interiors  of  the  houses,  many  of  which  date 
from  the  Gothic  period,  are  no  less  interesting. 
The  walls  of  the  rooms,  rough  plastered  and  white- 
washed, form  a  clear  background  to  the  furniture, 
which  is  highly  characteristic,  and  most  of  the  houses 
are  provided  with  the  curious  kitchens  that  one  sees 
so  frequently  in  Mallorca,  with  a  group  of  high- 
backed  settles,  covered  with  sheepskins,  ranged 
round  the  fireplace  so  as  to  form  a  smaller  inner 
room,  as  it  were,  in  which  the  family  can  sit  in  the 
wintertime,  clustered  round  the  genial  glow  of  the 
hearth. 

Above  the  town,  an  ancient  calvary  stands  guard 
upon  a  hill,  with  the  stations  of  the  cross  marked 
upon  its  slopes  by  crosses  flanked  by  cypress-trees. 
A  long  flight  of  steps  leads  up  to  it,  also  bordered 
by  cjT^resses,  the  whole  composition  resembling  a 
page  from  some  mediaeval  missal.  From  the  terraces 
about  this  calvary,  one  commands  entrancing  views 
in  every  direction — views  that  embrace  not  only  the 
wild  mountains  to  the  north  and  west  that  terminate 

[278] 


Ascent  to  the  Calvary,  PoUensa 


THROUGH  SPAIN  AND  PORTUGAL 

in  the  rugged  cliffs  of  Cape  Formentor,  below  which, 
nestled  in  its  circular  cove,  lies  the  Puerto  de  Po- 
llensa,  but  also  the  broad  silvery  expanse  of  the  Bay 
of  Alcudia  that  stretches  far  off  to  the  eastward. 

Later  on,  we  explored  these  smiling  shores.  We 
visited  the  Puerto  and  the  wonderful  Calle  de  San 
Vicente,  quite  the  most  spectacular  little  haven 
that  I  can  remember,  its  wall-like,  porous  cliffs, 
hundreds  of  feet  in  height,  and  fretted  by  wind  and 
weather  into  a  thousand  curious  forms,  dropping 
sheer  and  perpendicular  into  the  placid  waters  of 
the  sea,  that  here,  owing  to  their  exceptional  limpid- 
ity, take  on  a  variety  and  a  purity  of  color  that  is 
quite  beyond  belief.  Sorolla  and  many  another 
painter  has  worked  here;  and  here,  in  the  coves 
around  the  Puerto,  Anglada  passes  most  of  his  time 
painting  the  shimmering  pools  that  lie  like  marvellous 
aquaria  in  the  hollows  of  the  rocks. 

We  returned  to  Palma  just  in  time  for  the  festival 
of  the  Corpus,  and  my  last  impressions  of  the  city 
centre  round  that  important  fete,  when  the  high 
mass  at  the  cathedral,  owing  to  the  exceptional 
width  of  the  nave  and  the  absence  of  the  usual  corOy 
took  on  an  amplitude  and  a  splendor  that  I  have 

[  280  ] 


MALLORCA 

seldom  seen  equalled;  while  the  afternoon  proces- 
sion, with  its  confraternities  carrying  their  gilded 
saints,  its  corporations  and  religious  associations, 
its  chevaliers  of  the  nobility;  its  Paulist,  Capucin, 
and  Franciscan  monks;  its  officers  in  their  brilliant 
uniforms,  followed  by  the  numerous  clergy  of  the 
cathedral  with  the  bishop  carrying  the  host  in  a 
cloud  of  incense,  gave  a  color  and  an  atmosphere 
to  the  narrow  streets  that  recalled  the  faded  old  j^ic- 
ture  of  the  burial  of  Raymond  Lull  that  hangs  on  the 
walls  of  the  Ayuntamiento. 


[281  ] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
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